


Collecting Favors

by redsuspenders (thedarkandstormyknight)



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: F/M, Gen, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, more movie than musical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-23
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 19:12:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4403915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarkandstormyknight/pseuds/redsuspenders
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spot was in the habit of never owing anyone anything. If he needed something, he made sure to pay for it in full right away. But Racetrack never insisted on collecting a return, so a person's debt to him stretched on forever, giving Race all the power. If there was one thing Spot hated, it was a loss of power. And so he had vowed to never, ever be in the position of owing Racetrack a favor. No matter what.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Universally Liked

Spot Conlon liked Racetrack. Of course, he wasn’t unusual in this respect. Nearly every newsie liked Racetrack. It was practically impossible not to.

Racetrack Higgins was unique for a newsie. There was a complex system within each city and borough. Newsies from specific boroughs were not allowed in certain territories, and even the leaders of each section had to be careful crossing turf lines. And yet somehow Racetrack Higgins eluded them all. He could shift between lines for a game of cards or dice whenever he wanted, and the all the younger newsies simply adored him. Actually, if Spot was being honest, pretty much all newsies adored him.

Now Spot liked Racetrack’s leader, Jack Kelly, as well, but that was more for political savvy. It could be dangerous to dislike the charismatic Jack Kelly and definitely bad for business. However, he couldn’t shoot the breeze with Jack like he could with Racetrack. After all, everyone simply liked Racetrack; he was kind, friendly, and great with kids, if a incorrigible gambler. But he made sure he never won too much money from those with none to spare and was constantly going around doing favors for people without asking for anything in return.

If Spot were to be honest, that was the part that bothered him and kept him from accepting Racetrack completely. Spot liked favors, and he especially liked collecting them. But it made him uncomfortable that Racetrack would give up the shirt on his back for anyone who needed it without expecting a favor back. Race must have hundreds of people owing him. Well, Spot was in the habit of never owing anyone anything. If he needed something, he made sure to pay for it in full right away. Since Racetrack never insisted on collecting a return, a person's debt to him stretched on forever, giving Race all the power. If there was one thing Spot hated, it was a loss of power. And so he had vowed to never, ever be in the position of owing Racetrack a favor. No matter what.

Besides, he didn’t need to do no favors no more. As king of Brooklyn, people were doing favors for _him_. And that’s the way he liked it.

Speaking of Brooklyn, Spot took stock of his boys. There were a lot of newsies to keep track of and care for, over 1000 kids on a good day, but Spot had a system. All of the older boys were assigned younger kids to keep an eye on and teach. That way no one took advantage of the younger newsies and the older ones had to make their decisions based on that responsibility. It severely lowered the number of Brooklyn boys dying from scrapes and disagreements.

Not that Spot disproved of a good old fashioned fisticuffs. He rather liked giving a good soaking to people who needed them. But he didn’t want the bulls arresting one of his boys. Breaking them out was such a hassle and usually cut into good selling time.

Tonight was one of the many nights, however, that Racetrack was on their streets, playing a card game or two with anyone who wanted to join. Spot kept a close eye out. He may like Race well enough, but that sure don’t mean he trusted him.

“Hey, don’t bleed my boys dry, yeah Race?” Spot called out from his high perch on the docks. Race looked up from where he was dealing and smoking simultaneously and grinned.

“Ain’t my fault your boys don’t know nothing about poker!” he shouted back. The boys he was playing with booed loudly and pelted him with chips. But there was a friendly smile on all their faces. Spot watched the game from up high. He didn’t gamble or nothing himself. He didn’t like to give anyone the chance to gain one up over him.

The game was fun to watch though, and it entertained the boys so they stayed out of mischief. Spot let the game go on for a while until it started getting late. Then he stood, signaling that it was time for everyone to go home for the night.

“Nice seeing ya, Racetrack,” Spot said as Race collected his cards and his winnings, a constant stream of moving energy.

“Night Spot. Night Brooklyn!” A chorus of “Night, Racetrack!” followed. The newsie threw a wink and swaggered away, whistling all the while. Spot watched him leave, partially to make sure he wasn’t planning on staying overnight in his borough and partially because even though he wasn’t Spot’s, the king still wanted him to get home safe.


	2. Making Bets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Racetrack, didn't ya hear? Ain't nobody but Brooklyn allowed in Brooklyn right now. We's in a fight with Queens." Chuckles spoke. He appeared to be the leader of the crew. That made sense. Race knew Spot trusted him.
> 
> "I heard," said Race unconcernedly, lighting a cigar and rolling it between his blackened fingers. "Didn't think that applied to little old me. We've a standing card game, remember?" A few of the boys shifted uncertainly. Race pushed his advantage, hoping it was the right play. He didn't want to be on the wrong side of a soaking tonight.
> 
> “Look, I’m sure Spot won’t mind. Or are you just afraid I’ll beat you again?”

“Spot! Spot! Hey Spot! Spot!” The newsie in question tried to hide a genuine smile behind a smirk as his youngest subject pulled excitedly as his suspenders.

“Yeah, Pup?” Pup was about seven years old, with large green eyes, wispy brown hair, and a perpetual gap between his front teeth. He was great for shifting papers. All the ladies fell in love with his genuine smile and freckles.

“Look what I got today, Spot! A whole half dollar!” he cried, pushing the coin right up into Spot’s face. The king grinned full out as he kneeled to Pup’s level.

“Oh wow, that’s swell, Pup. Who gave ya that?”

“A lady in a really nice coat. She said I reminded her of her grandson. And she gave me two! I already spent one,” added Pup ruefully, “but I saved the second. I want you to have it! Because you’re the best!”

“You should keep it,” said Spot immediately. “You’s earned it.”

“Yeah, but I only started selling papes because you taught me how. So’s I thinks you should have it! It’s a present. Take it, Spot, take it please?” Well, how was Spot able to resist such an adorable face? He couldn’t, he really couldn’t. As he accepted the silver half dollar, he vowed that he would find a way to use it for something nice for Pup. Maybe some new shoes or something. His were flapping at the soles.

“Well thanks. That’s real generous of you. You selling with Scat, right Pup?” Pup nodded earnestly. “You like Scat?” Scat was his most reliable newsie and one of the oldest, so Spot thought they’d be a good pair. Still, it was important to check in.

“Oh he’s swell. I really like him,” gushed Pup with conviction. Spot nodded as he rose and placed a brotherly hand on Pup’s shoulder.

“Good.”

As they walked across the pier, Chuckles came over. It was the time of day where Spot’s subjects sought him out for various things. Sitting on a crate, Spot waited to be approached; time to hold court.

“Uh, Spot?” Spot lounged back, looking like he didn’t have a care in the world. It was important that the Brooklyn newsies never lose faith in him or doubt his leadership. He needed to seem cool and collected.

“Yeah?” he drawled.

“We had a few boys from Queens trying to sell in our areas today. What do you want us to do?”

“Soak ‘em. We don’t like no intruders round these parts. Then get the word out. Let the others know Spot Conlon ain’t to be reckoned with.” Chuckles nodded. “And then we’ll close our borders for a little while. Nobody in or out without permission, yeah?” The other newsies nodded their agreement. Nobody infringed on their grounds.

“Sure thing, boss,” said Chuckles. “You want me to set it up?” Chuckles could be counted on. And Spot considered him to be friend, as much as he could consider anyone a friend. After all, he was always on guard for a stab in the back. It weren’t easy being in his position. Just ask his predecessors.

“Just don’t attract the bulls.”

“Got it.”

Spot dealt with a few more issues after that. Buttons’ only shirt had been irreparably ripped in the fight against Queens and she couldn’t afford to replace it, so Spot took up a collection until they scraped up enough money to help Buttons out. Shoelace claimed that Hot Dog had stolen from him. Spot solved that. Shortstop and Freckles were sick of sharing the same bed now that they were pushing thirteen. The king sorted that out too, giving Freckles a bed newly emptied by a retired newsie who had gone to work in a factory. Once everything was wrapped up and tied with a bow, Spot relaxed for the evening, munching on a sandwich he had stolen from a fat gentleman. Spot never paid for anything if he could help it; he was saving. He couldn’t be a newsie forever, after all. And kings never lasted long.

 

* * *

 

Racetrack carefully counted the coins in his pocket. It had been a pretty flush day. For once, he had bet on the right horse. He put the coins he needed to repay Weasel and two bits to buy papes tomorrow and then counted the remaining. He had enough to go to his weekly game in Brooklyn and pop by the Bronx for a social smoke.

Being social was one of Race’s favorite things, right after gambling and betting. But the first two were more of an addiction. Socializing, on the other hand, was a real killer. The best part of being a newsie was no one telling Race where to go or what to do. He was completely free.

“Hey Race, where you heading?” Racetrack grinned at Kid Blink. Blink was sitting in this top bunk, watching Racetrack sort out his change.

“Got me a standing game of cards with newsies of Brooklyn. They’s always lose big to me.”

“I’s heard Spot Conlon’s locked down the place pretty tight. There was a real good soaking from them to some Queens boys who weren’t abiding by the rules. I dunno if you’ll get in.” Racetrack considered. He knew Spot was strict, but he really enjoyed his time in Brooklyn.

“I’ll head over anyway. Give it a shot,” Racetrack finally shrugged. “They thinking Queens’ll soak ‘em back?”

“That’s what I heard. You know Jimmy the Goat’s in charge over there. He ain’t the forgiving sort, even if he’s the one who made the boner by sending his boys over.”

“Well Spot ain’t no bimbo. He knows the goons from the rest. He’ll let me in,” said Racetrack with a confidence he didn’t feel. As much as he liked Spot, he always got the feeling the king of Brooklyn didn’t like him so much. Race wasn’t sure why; he tried to be likable by everyone’s standards. But you couldn’t win them all. And Spot let Race in to play cards, so that was victory enough, even if Spot himself never played.

"But just in case, tell Jack where I'm going, will ya?" Blink easily agreed. But then he stayed on his bunk, fidgeting and watching Race. Racetrack had a feeling Kid had more to say.

"Spit it out," Race said, not unkindly. It wasn't uncommon for many of the boys to go to Racetrack with more of their personal problem. Racetrack was well liked and easy to talk to. But Blink had never sought him out for something like that, so Race was confused.

"You's didn't hear anything last night when you came in last night, did ya Race?" Blink asked anxiously. Everything was suddenly clear to the newsie. His normally cheerful face serious, Race climbed up to Blink's bunk and looked him straight in the eye.

"You know that don't bother me none," he said firmly. "I's actually thinks it's sorta cute. But you's and Mush's secret is safe with me." Last night Race had heard Mush crawl into bed with Blink for some late night stolen kisses. It was no surprise to Race that the two were madly in love. It was written plain on their face. But he could also understand why they might be scared.

"Thanks, Race. I owe you one," he said, his voice unusually small. Racetrack threw a comforting arm around Blink's shoulder and pulled him close.

"You ain't got nothing to worry about, you hear? 'Sides, I don't think Jack would mind so much if he found out. I bet you two bits that he’s just like you." This elicited a watery chuckle out of Kid Blink.

"You think?" He asked desperately.

"Course I do. That's why I'm betting."

"You're always betting." Racetrack held a hand to his heart as if offended. But Blink was definitely more cheerful now, which was just what he wanted. Racetrack couldn't stand to see any of his friends sad, not when he could do something about it.

"You want to come to Brooklyn with me tonight? Get your mind off things?" Blink shook his head.

"To be honest, Spot Conlon makes me sorta nervous. But thank you, Race. Really." Racetrack ruffled Blink's hair and grinned.

"Any time." And he meant it. "Now wish me luck in my winnings." Blink did and Racetrack set off for Brooklyn.

Race whistled Medda's latest tune happily as heads his way across the bridge. He was glad Blink talked to him. He had known about Blink and Mush for sometime and thought they were adorable. There weren't much more that Race liked to see than his friends falling in love. All he wanted was for them to be happy.

As he walked into Spot's territory, several newsies jumped out in front of him and those thoughts flew out of his head.

"Heya fellas," Racetrack greeted them cheerfully.

"Racetrack, didn't ya hear? Ain't nobody but Brooklyn allowed in Brooklyn right now. We's in a fight with Queens." Chuckles spoke. He appeared to be the leader of the crew. That made sense. Race knew Spot trusted him.

"I heard," said Race unconcernedly, lighting a cigar and rolling it between his blackened fingers. "Didn't think that applied to little old me. We've a standing card game, remember?" A few of the boys shifted uncertainly. Race pushed his advantage, hoping it was the right play. He didn't want to be on the wrong side of a soaking tonight.

“Look, I’m sure Spot won’t mind. Or are you just afraid I’ll beat you again?” A few of them shouted insults at that, their pride wounded. Race only grinned more. He liked Brooklyn. Most boroughs were pretty scared of the rough and tumble newsies, but Racetrack liked how honest they were. They didn’t pretend to like someone they ain’t and they never cheated at cards. The only person Race couldn’t read completely was Spot, but that was always the case with the king. And Race had seen many kings come and go over the years. There were always uprisings in Brooklyn. Spot wouldn’t last long.

What Race liked about Spot’s rule was the way he took care of everyone. The last two kings mostly used the newsies to achieve their own ends. Spot had taken the order and hierarchy that came with ruling Brooklyn and used it to make sure everyone had a bed to sleep in and food in their stomachs. The place still wasn’t particularly warm and friendly, but the pinched, desperate look on most of the newsies’ faces had softened out somewhat, making them fiercely loyal to their leader.

Granted, Racetrack could usually find something he liked about everyone. He liked people in general, and it took a lot to make him scared or intimidated. After all, they was all human, weren’t they? The quickest way to get on his bad side was to mess with or threaten younger kids. But Spot took care of them, so Racetrack liked Spot. It was that simple.

“I dunno, Racetrack. Spot was pretty specific. He said we ain’t to let nobody in until the business with Queens was finished.” Race spread open his hands innocently.

“You think I’m here ‘cause of Queens? I ain’t heard nothing about that til just now. But I don’t want to get you in trouble with Spot. I’ll come back next week, yeah?” There was some uncomfortable shifting and grumbling. Chuckles looked at the other boys hesitantly. It was no secret that most of them looked forward to Race’s weekly visits. After all, everyone was friends with Racetrack.

“We’ll send a runner to ask. Hot Dog, go check in with Spot,” Chuckles finally decided. By the time Hot Dog returned, Racetrack and the sentries had all settled down to a rousing game of marbles. Hot Dog rolled his eyes when he saw them sitting on the ground, not even pretending to be watching the bridge anymore.

“You’re lucky Spot said you’s could come in,” said Hot Dog ruefully. Racetrack stood, brushing dirt off his trousers and collecting his winnings. After bidding the gathered newsies a cheery adieu, he set off towards the pier. Sometimes it was really nice to be him.


	3. High Stakes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey Race?” Racetrack heard his name called just as he located the cigar under his bunk. It must’ve rolled there during the night. He fished it out and then looked up at the speaker. Boots stood there, waiting for his attention. This was definitely not a social call. Racetrack sat on his bed and lit the cigar. He had a feeling he’d need it for this conversation.
> 
> “Yeah?”
> 
> “Can you get me into Brooklyn?” Nope, definitely not a social call.

Racetrack looked frantically for his last cigar, checking his metal cup and the draws he shared with Kid Blink and Snipeshooter. Nothing. He could’ve sworn he had one more left to smoke during the morning edition. 

“Hey Race?” Racetrack heard his name called just as he located the cigar under his bunk. It must’ve rolled there during the night. He fished it out and then looked up at the speaker. Boots stood there, waiting for his attention. This was definitely not a social call. Racetrack sat on his bed and lit the cigar. He had a feeling he’d need it for this conversation.

“Yeah?”

“Can you get me into Brooklyn?” Nope, definitely not a social call.

“Why’s you need to get into Brooklyn? That’s Spot Conlon’s territory. I ain’t got no power there,” Race said honestly, although it was all over the streets how Spot Conlon let Racetrack in when there was a ban on all newsies outside of Brooklyn. Luckily that issue had been resolved, although Race didn’t know how. Honestly there was a good chance it ended in a bloodbath or at least a fight. Whatever happened, Brooklyn had won, and the gates were open again. 

“But you’s the only one who gets in regularly. Please?” How could Race say no to a face like that?

“You tell me why and I’ll sees what I can do.” To his amusement, Boots blushed.

“There’s this newsie there, Buttons. And we’ve run into each other shifting papes once or twice. And I really like her, Race, I really do. So’s I’ve been saving so I can take her out for a hot dog or a pretzel, and I’ve finally got enough. But I’m afraid Spot Conlon won’t let me into Brooklyn. And I know Buttons’ll be much more impressed if I visit her on her streets instead of waiting til the next time we sees each other. Please, Race?” It was a reasonable request. And Racetrack was always willing to do things in the name of love. 

Besides he had met Buttons once or twice and could see why Boots liked her. They both had the same very loving soul and dedication to hard work. Even as friends, they were a good match. 

“Sure,” Racetrack agreed. Boots like up like a Christmas tree.

“Aw gee thanks, Race! I owe ya!”

“Go sell some papes, Boots,” was all Racetrack said in response. But that night, when it was time for his trip to Brooklyn, Racetrack made sure he waited for Boots and they set off towards Brooklyn together. 

When they got there, Racetrack headed straight for Spot. He knew that was Brooklyn protocol for bringing someone new around. Race didn’t have much use for rules, but he didn’t want to mess things up for Boots. 

Spot Conlon was at his normal perch, overlooking his terrain. A few Brooklyn newsies gave Race a second glance when they noticed he had someone else in tow, but Racetrack walked determinedly forward. 

Racetrack couldn’t help but wonder how Spot had taken control. He had seen several kings of Brooklyn, and they had all followed the same pattern of older, stocky, and tough. Spot was tough, for sure, but that was the only similarity Race saw. Spot was pretty young for a king, and slight of build with an almost impish face. He wasn’t as prone to violence, although his smart mouth could get him out of almost anything. And since he took over, Race hadn’t heard even the smallest whisper of a rebellion or someone rising through the ranks with the intent of seizing control. 

“Hey Spot,” Racetrack called out calmly. Spot Conlon raised a single eyebrow.

“Well if it ain’t Racetrack Higgins. What can I do for you today, Racetrack?”

“Wanted you to meet my friend, Boots.”

“And why’s that?” There were always fifteen layers in a conversation with Spot Conlon. Racetrack didn’t like to talk in riddles. He liked to say plainly what he meant and be done with it. But he knew that the wrong word at the wrong time would screw it all up for Boots, and he didn’t want that. So Racetrack winked and leaned in closer so only Boots and Spot could hear what he had to say next.

“Boots likes Buttons and wants to take her out for hot dogs.” Boots blushed bright red but Spot relaxed, which was Race’s intention. He turned his intense gaze on Boots.

“You ain’t gonna hurt her?” Boots shook his head. “You’s really like her?” He nodded. “And if she ain’t interested, you’ll leave her alone?” Another nod. “Okay’s then. You can stay.”

“Thanks!” Boots scampered off to find Buttons. That left Racetrack with Spot. He smiled amiably. Spot shook his head slowly.

“You are something, you know that? Not even my boys would’ve dared to done that.” In Spot’s strange, multi-layered way, Race was pretty sure that was a compliment. 

“Ya honor me,” he said. “Want to play a game of cards?” Spot stiffened in a second.

“I don’t gamble. Ain’t right for the king of Brooklyn.” Race shrugged, pulling out a stack of cards and shuffling them expertly. 

“Just this once. No stakes. Promise.” He smiled winningly, hoping to spend more time with the boy and thus get to know him better, but Spot just shook his head.

“No.” Racetrack tried not to let the response bother him. Instead he went to his normal crew, greeted them all loudly and enthusiastically, and started a game without Spot. After all, he didn’t need him for a game. No, Racetrack could have plenty of fun without him.


	4. The First Favor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Spot! Hey Spot!” The king of Brooklyn turned from his throne, a humble crate, on the docks to look at one of his subjects. Jaz ran up, hat askew and out of breath.
> 
> “What?” snapped Spot. He didn’t like to be disturbed when he was thinking. All his boys knew that. Jaz pulled off his hat apologetically, wringing it between his hands.
> 
> “It’s Pup, Spot, he ain’t come back from shifting papes.” Looking down on Jaz, Spot glared and the newsie cowered. Spot knew Pup; he was one of the youngest kids in Brooklyn and Spot had assigned him to Scat, one of the oldest newsboys for that very reason. If something happened to him, heads would roll.

“Extra extra, read all about it! Hey mister, wanna buy a pape?" Without pausing, Spot pulled a dime out of a passing gentleman's hand and replaced it with a paper. "Sorry I ain't got no change." Then he turned and dove back into the crowds before the man could complain or call for the bulls. The "no change" method was one of Spot's favorite selling methods. It never failed.

Spot Conlon was one of the best newsies in town, hands down. Using a combination of intimidation, fast talking, and running, Spot managed to shift his papers in excellent time. Since it was summer, he finished even earlier than usual. Noticing he had ended by the racetrack, Spot decided to watch the horses for a bit before heading back home. He didn't like the drunk men who hung around, but the horses were nice, and it was important to survey all his lands, even the undesirable ones.

"C'mon, double or nothing, what do you say? Paul Revere is the horse ta beat, don't ya think?" Spot paused, recognizing the voice. Ah yes, Racetrack. He should have known he would run into the newsie here. Sometimes it felt like he saw Racetrack everywhere, despite the guy living in Manhattan with Jack Kelly.

"Dear me, I think I just won, gentlemen!" Racetrack kept up a fast narration as he swindled the attendees with expertise. He wasn't bad. However, he still had a few papers left; Spot could see them hanging out his bag. Feeling a warm glow of a job done better, Spot approached his fellow newsie.

"Ain't the goal to sell papes, not bet on the horses?" Spot asked companionably, not noticing for a moment that he had addressed Racetrack like a Brooklyn newsie rather than one of Kelly's boys.

Pocketing his winnings with a wide grin and a puff on his cigar, Race threw an equally companionable arm around Spot's narrow shoulders.

"It is far too nice a day not to bet though," he grinned. Suddenly remembering that Race wasn't one of his, Spot threw the arm off with a sneer.

"You're gonna eat those papes if you don't sell 'em, winnings or not." There, that should create enough distance between them. Racetrack only shrugged, as easygoing as ever.

“Perhaps. I don’t usually got many left by the end of the day. ‘Sides, it don’t hurt to have some fun once in a while. You ought ta try it,” he cajoled. Spot threw him an unimpressed look.

“Suit yourself,” Racetrack responded with another shrug and a puff of his cigar. Then another man approached Racetrack to place a bet, and Spot stalked away, trying to figure out what he was doing on this side of town in the first place. After all, he almost always avoided the Sheepshead. It made no sense for him to be here, even if he did like to observe all of Brooklyn occasionally. That Racetrack was messing with his head.

 

* * *

 

“Spot! Hey Spot!” The king of Brooklyn turned from his throne, a humble crate, on the docks to look at one of his subjects. Jaz ran up, hat askew and out of breath.

“What?” snapped Spot. He didn’t like to be disturbed when he was thinking. All his boys knew that. Jaz pulled off his hat apologetically, wringing it between his hands.

“It’s Pup, Spot, he ain’t come back from shifting papes.” Looking down on Jaz, Spot glared and the newsie cowered. Spot knew Pup; he was one of the youngest kids in Brooklyn and Spot had assigned him to Scat, one of the oldest newsboys for that very reason. If something happened to him, heads would roll.

“Yeah? Where’s Scat?”

“He’s was out today. Sick or something. Told Marbles to take Pup instead.”

“And where’s Marbles?” Spot’s voice was deadly cold, although his anger wasn’t directed at Jaz. Not right now at least.

“Came back an hour ago. No Pup.” Swearing softly, Spot jumped down from his deck and started walking down the pier to where he knew a crew of his boys gathered to play cards. Seeing Marbles, he whacked him good on the back of the head with his beloved gold tipped cane.

“Ow!” cried Marbles, rubbing the sore spot.

“Where’s Pup? I heard he was with you.” The guilty shifting was all Spot needed to see. He turned to the others watching their king in silence.

“You lot, go find Pup. Jaz, bring Marbles here back to the lodging house. And Marbles? If any harm came to our boy Pup, you’ll feel it double.” Marbles swallowed audibly but nodded, suitably abashed. Spot had that sort of presence among his boys. Nobody disobeyed the king. Not now, not ever.

They took of in groups of twos or threes like Spot taught them, Spot at the helm of his own. It weren’t safe for a newsie on his own outside of Brooklyn. Not everyone had their boys in line like Spot did. And Brooklyn had a reputation to maintain. They could afford to be losing any fights.

As they approached the bridge to Manhattan, Spot caught sight of Pup. Now, unknown to everyone but himself, Pup was one of Spot’s favorites. He was a real good kid and not at all intimidated by Spot. Instead he had taken a shine to the king of Brooklyn and tried to follow him everywhere, which is how he earned the nickname. Spot would not forgive himself if something happened to the kid.

And it certainly looked like something was going down. There was a pair of rough-looking goons, apparently trying to cross into Brooklyn and wielding clubs threateningly. Spot sped up. Then he noticed another figure; a second newsie was there, fighting off the two goons on his own. He was losing, yes, but it ain’t a fair fight when your opponents are grown men with clubs and you ain’t nothing but an unarmed newsie . Still, he got in some pretty impressive swings, keeping them away from Pup, who was huddled against the wall.

When the newsie protecting Pup shifted, Spot caught sight of his face in the gas lights. It was Racetrack. Cursing, he sped up. Pup was in trouble and it weren’t even a newsie of Brooklyn protecting him.

“You’s knows what to do,” he instructed as they caught to Race and Pup. Hot Dog and Chuckles descended on the two guineas in a flurry of fury and knives. The Brooklyn newsies were always armed, as per Spot’s orders, unlike Jack’s newsies, who relied on a combination of wit and fists, which often failed.

Knowing his boys would take care of the goons, Spot pulled Race of the fight, wincing at the blooming bruises and blood spilling out of his mouth. Then he went over to Pup and helped him up.

“You sqaure, kid?” Pup nodded, his big green eyes wide and scared, Despite the fact that Spot liked to keep up the pretence of being a hard, cocky bastard in front of newsies from other boroughs, he pulled Pup in for a frantic, brief hug. Racetrack, busy spitting globs of blood on the cobblestones, didn’t appear to notice.

Hot Dog and Chuckles succeeded in driving off the goons in that moment. They didn’t like no strangers in their territory. Then the three newsies turned to the other intruder in the midst: Racetrack, still coughing up blood on the street.

“What happened?” When Spot used a voice like that, he didn’t want no messing around. Pup piped up immediately.

“Racetrack came over the bridge just as I was finishing up me papes and asks me why I’m selling by myself today. Guess he knows your orders, Spot. And so’s I tell him Scat’s sick and Marbles ran off to impress a girl and so’s he says he’s meeting a few newsies for a game and he’ll walk me the rest o’ the way, so you ain’t mad, Spot. And then, Spot, and then, these two goons cross over the bridge and I says to them to go back, ‘cause I knows how you’s don’t like anyone crossing the line like that, but they don’t listen, says they ain't gonna listen to a kid like me. Then they takes a real swing at me, right, and Race, he jumps right in, all real nice as you please, saying things like “put that away, your honor” and they turns on him and he goes at ‘em and I was just trying to stay out of the way, real silent like, ‘cause that’s what Race told me to do, but they kept saying they was going to kill me, and I was real scared. And then you showed up, Spot, like I knows you would.”

As Spot listened to the story, he came to an unpleasant realization. Despite his earlier resolution, he now owed a very clear favor to Racetrack. That Manhattan newsies from the Lower East Side had protected and saved the life of a Brooklyn boy without so much as a please and thank you and took a real soaking as a result. It was evident in the way he leaned heavily on the wall, wiping lines of blood off his chin.

Spot spit in his hand and held it out.

“I gotta thank you, Race, for helping my boy Pup. We’s in your debt.” Racetrack, who looked on the edge of collapsing, managed to spit a bloody hunk of saliva into his hand and returned the shake.

“No problem, Spot. I think I missed that card game though. Better head back to the lodging house.” He tried to stagger forward and practically fell. Spot made a split second decision.

“Hot Dog and Chuckles, you get Pup back home and teach Marbles real good about leaving someone dry like that. I’ll take Racetrack home, talk payment and the likes.” The two kids nodded and started leading Pup home. That left Spot alone with Race. He considered the situation. The guy wasn’t walking so well; it had been a heavy soaking. And now Spot owed him the life of one of his own kids, which was an enormous debt he couldn’t ever hope to repay. So, tucking his cane into his suspenders, he pushed himself under Race’s arm to let Race use him as a support and wrapped an arm around the newsie’s waist to steady him. Time to head to Manhattan.

“What’re ya doin’?” Race mumbled blearily as Spot helped him through the streets. They attracted a number of strange looks, but that was the least of Spot’s concern. He had to make sure he managed to explain to Jack what happened without looking at fault. He didn’t want to be blamed for Race’s, frankly, alarming state nor for his leadership abilities to be questioned. He was the undisputed king. It had to stay that way.

When they arrived at the Lodging House, a few of the newsboys were outdoors, loitering around. Jack was one of them, and he spotted Racetrack almost immediately.

“Hey, Race! We was wondering when you’s was coming -” he broke off with an angry yelp and rushed forward, hustling the short kid out of Spot’s arms. Spot pretended it wasn’t a relief to have the heavy weight taken off of him. Then Jack turned his incredulously angry face towards Spot.

“What the hell happened, Conlon? Last I’s heard, he was going to play cards with some of your boys. You responsible for this?” Spot opened his mouth angrily to defend himself, but Racetrack beat him to it in his delirious state.

“Jack, _Cowboy_ , I’s came across some goons threatening a kid and stepped in. Spot and his boys chased the goons off. All my fault, really.” And then Spot closed his mouth in confusion because the way Racetrack explained it, it didn’t even sound like Spot owed him a favor, even though he very clearly did. Why would he do that?

Jack nodded slowly before spitting in his hand and offering it to Spot. The king returned it, glad he wasn’t in for a good soaking with all this.

“Thanks for bringing Race back. We’ve got it from here.” Spot wanted to protest, but it weren’t good for business to do that. So he nodded, clapped Jack’s back, whirled his cane, and headed home. He would have to settle the bill with Racetrack another time.


	5. Settling a Debt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “How ya feelin’ Race?” Racetrack jerked upright, smacking his head on the upper bunk. Rubbing the new sore spot, he cracked open an eye. Spot Conlon stood there, leaning casually on his cane and looking for all the world like he belonged in the Lodging House of Jack Kelly. 
> 
> “Uh,” said Race slowly, not sure what the King of Brooklyn was doing by his bedside. “Sore?”

Racetrack Higgins woke up with a pained groan. His ribs hurt. Actually all of him hurt. What the hell happened last night? Then he remembered the kid in Brooklyn and the bullies and Spot. He scrubbed his face. He hurt far too much to shift any papes today. And judging by the sun he was currently blocking with his closed eyes, he had already missed the morning edition. 

“How ya feelin’ Race?” Racetrack jerked upright, smacking his head on the upper bunk. Rubbing the new sore spot, he cracked open an eye. Spot Conlon stood there, leaning casually on his cane and looking for all the world like he belonged in the Lodging House of Jack Kelly. 

“Uh,” said Race slowly, not sure what the King of Brooklyn was doing by his bedside. “Sore?” No newsie ever entered the lodging house of of a borough that wasn’t theirs. It was alien to see Spot standing between the unmade bunks, looking for all the world like he was standing on his pier surveying his empire. Then he noticed Spot holding something out to Race. Cautiously, Racetrack accepted it. It was a cigar, specifically a corona. That was his brand. 

“Hey, what’s this for?” Spot made a face like he was suppressing his trademark sneer and opting for a real smile. It looked more like a grimace. Racetrack would laugh if his ribs didn’t hurt so much.

“Consider it a thank you. It ain’t no small thing to help a boy of Brooklyn out.” Racetrack rolled the cigar between his fingers. It was flawless. He bet it weren’t even stolen. This was an expensive thank you. But Race didn’t need one for helping Pup out. There was no way he would've left a kid to fend on his own like that. Race attempted to sit up so he could explain, and stopped as he groaned in pain. What he didn’t expect was for Spot to step in and pull him the rest of the way up with a surprisingly gentle touch, even adjusting Race’s pillow for him.

“You don’t gotta thank me or nothing, Spot. I wouldda done it for anyone,” Race said honestly. Spot made another face.

“But ya did for one of my boys, and one of the young ones at that. So’s you’s getting a thank you.” The unspoken “deal with it” was there. Racetrack raised an eyebrow as he lit the cigar Spot had given him. He had never been forced into accepting a thank you before. That Spot Conlon was really something else.

“You gonna beat it or you got something else to say?” Race asked as Spot continued to stare at him. Spot’s mouth twisted for a second before he spoke.

“I’s gonna be straight with ya, Racetrack. I don’t like owing nothing to nobody. And right now I owes you a pretty big one for Pup. So I want to settle it. You tell me what you want in return, and my boys’ll make it happen.” And Racetrack finally understood what was going on. In Spot Conlon’s warped view of the world, Race now had one over Spot, giving him power over the king of Brooklyn. And that made Spot uncomfortable, fearful even. Now that? That was interesting. As Racetrack tried to figure out how he wanted to answer Spot, Spot stiffened. Not a second later, Mush burst through the door. He skidded to a halt when he saw Spot.

“Jack asked me to check up on you,” Mush said slowly to Racetrack, his eyes nervously tracking Spot’s casual stance in their lodging house.

“I ain’t bringing any harm to your boy, Mush, don’t you worry,” said Spot. Racetrack wasn’t sure what shocked Mush more: that Spot of Brooklyn knew his name or that Spot was there in the first place. Unperturbed, Spot continued.

“You tell Jackie boy I’ve taken a personal interest in Racetrack’s getting better. I don’t want him missing out on no hard earned pape money, got that? I’ll be back.” With that, Spot left the room, using his gold-tipped cane to mark his exit with a solid thump. Mush turned to Racetrack with wide eyes.

“What’s Spot Conlon doing here?” Mush asked. Racetrack considered his answer. It had just occurred to him that maybe for the first time since Spot had acquired the crown, there was someone with real power over his head, and that someone was Race. After all, if Race started suggesting that maybe Spot couldn’t take care of his boys, Spot’s reign would be over like that. All it took was on whiff of weakness. And now that power was in Race’s hand. Race had to say, he didn’t really like the feeling.

“Just checking how I was, seeing as I got soaked in Brooklyn and all. Hey, do me a favor and don’t tell Jack he was actually inside the house. I dunno how Jack’ll take it, but it ain’t well.” Mush nodded.

“Sure thing, Race. How’re feeling?”

“Like I been kicked by a horse,” said Racetrack honestly, leaning back on his pillow. “How was the headline?”

“Lousy,” sighed Mush. “I gotta go and sell the rest. And don’t worry. We’re all shifting some of yours today so you’s won’t take a loss.” Race hated to admit it, but the news filled him with relief. He couldn’t afford to miss a day of selling papes. None of them could. But here in Manhattan, Jack Kelly made sure no newsie got left behind. 

“You go sell. I’ll be here,” Race said. For another day at least. With a smile and a nod, Mush rushed off to resume selling, leaving Racetrack alone in the lodging house with his thoughts. And despite having the first day off in a long time, all Racetrack could think about was Spot. What was he going to do about all this?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! I know the first few chapters haven't been wonderful but I wrote them a while ago and didn't really edit before posting. I promise the upcoming stuff should be better in quality.


	6. Concerning Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Now you listen real good, ya hear? This is my turf. My rules. You’s broke a rule. Ain’t no excuse in the book to get ya outta that one. So’s unless you give me one good reason to let ya stay, it’s outta the lodging house and outta Brooklyn for ya. Got it?”

“Spot, hey Spot! How’s Race?” Variations of that question hit Spot from all sides as he strolled back onto his pier. It was a reminder of how well-liked Racetrack was; a liking that had only increased since he took a soaking for one of their own. It was just as important to Spot’s reputation with his own boys as it was to his reputation with the other cities that things stay good with Race. He had to handle this well. It would be a real test of power.

When he got to the end of the pier, he jumped up onto his crate to address his subjects. They crowded around him. The minute he jerked his head at them, they fell silent, waiting for Spot to speak.

“So’s as you know, one o’ Kelly’s boys, Racetrack, took a real soaking for one of our boys yesterday. I saw him this morning and Jack Kelly’s taking real good care of him. But what I’s wants to know,” here Spot paused and looked around at all the upturned faces and his flint colored eyes turned hard, “is how’s the two goons got here in that first place. So’s I want my birds to go find out. Now.” A collection of the newsies broke off and departed immediately. 

“The rest of you’s got one job. We need ta remind people that Brooklyn ain’t to be messed with. If anyone outside of us even looks at ya wrong, you’s give ‘em a good lesson. Tell ‘em that Brooklyn’s still the toughest city of New York. You got that?” They all shouted a confirmation, many of the older, burlier boys lighting up in excitement. All Brooklyn newsies loved a good fight. 

“But Spot, whadda ‘bout Race?” piped up Leaf from the fray. Spot glared.

“Race took care’a Pup like he was one of our own. So’s we leave Racetrack alone. He ain’t gettin’ no soakings from Brooklyn. Not today.” As the gathered newsies dissolved back into their own chaos, Spot hopped down from his crate and let Chuckles shoo them away. He need to think. Staring out over the water, he did exactly that, the clamor of his boys fading into a comfortable background noise until Chuckle’s frustrated voice broke through.

“I told ya, Spot ain’t taking no visitors right now. Hey!” Spot turned around to Scat breaking through ranks and approaching Spot directly. Spot waved Chuckles down. He had a feeling he knew what his boy wanted to talk about.

“Scat,” he greeted neutrally. Scat twisted his cap in his hands, still looking pretty sick and withdrawn.

“Spot, Spot, I’m real sorry. I shouldda come to you when I was too sick to sell yesterday. I let Pup go with Marbles. It’s my fault he almost got hurt. What can I do to make it up to you?” And this is why Spot liked Scat. Scat took responsibility. He was good at taking care of the young ones and had trained more than one top notch newsie. So Spot placed a kind hand on Scat’s shoulder. 

“Ain’t your fault, Scat. You’s did exactly what you’s supposed to do. You sent Pup off with another newsie, one who shouldda been able to handle the responsibility. Anything that almost happened to Pup and did happen to Race is Marbles fault, ya hear me? Don’t beat yaself up.” Spot meant what he said. Then he clapped Scat on the shoulder. They were done here.

“Chuckles,” he called as he started heading towards his boys’ lodging house. Chuckles jogged up to him.

“Yeah?”

“We’re going to pay Marbles a visit. You follow my instructions?”

“Me and Hot Dog followed ‘em real good.”

“Good.” 

Inside the lodging house, Marbles was the only one in bed, looking to be in about the same state as Racetrack. Except unlike Racetrack, no one was covering his papes today. No one would’ve dared bring the wrath of Spot Conlon on their head. Marbles was sleeping when Spot entered. Spot grinned to himself. Not for long. Banging the cane loudly on every bunk he passed, Spot headed over to Marbles, Chuckles trailing behind.

“Wake up, Marbles. It’s the reckoning,” he shouted cheerfully. Marbles woke with a start and tried to scrambled back when he saw Spot coming. That only succeeded in injuring him further as he smacked his head on the bunk.

“Uh, hiya Spot,” he gulped. Still grinning in a most terrifying fashion, Spot took at seat on the edge of Marbles’ bed. 

“How ya feeling?” Marbles flinched as Spot came close. That was good. Everyone should have a healthy fear of Spot, but someone on his bad side, like Marbles, should be a little more afraid than the average. 

“Look, Spot,” started Marbles, licking his lips, “I ain’t meant for anyone ta get hurt. The kid was just putting a cramp in my style, you know? And I got a lady to impress. I ain’t, I aint...” But as Spot’s too-bright grin turned truly sinister, he wilted against the bedframe. Reaching forward, Spot grabbed the collar of his shirt and tugged Marbles forward.

“Now you listen real good, ya hear? This is my turf. My rules. You’s broke a rule. Ain’t no excuse in the book to get ya outta that one. So’s unless you give me one good reason to let ya stay, it’s outta the lodging house and outta Brooklyn for ya. Got it?” Marbles squeaked as he nodded. Despite being physically bigger than Spot, he knew that Spot could tear him a new one without even trying. Nobody messed with Spot Conlon. Fighting was in his blood.

“Look, Spot, really, it won’t happen again. I promise. Lemme keep selling papes for ya. C’mon Spot. I ain’t never messed up ‘fore this!” Spot let Marbles keep begging as he considered what to do with the newsie. Too harsh a sentence and he’d lose some of that hard-earned loyalty. Too light, and people would say he’d gone soft. 

“Tell ya what, Marbles. You can stay but you’s on probation. And for the next week, nobody’s gotta watch your back or nothing. You’s on your own. Survive that, and you can come back.”

“Sure thing, Spot,” gushed Marbles, the relief clear in his eyes. It was no little thing to get exiled from Brooklyn, and Spot had definitely shown mercy by letting him stay. “I can do that.”

“See that you do. I’ll have eyes on you.” Satisfied with the conversation, Spot stood up and left the bunk room. When he and Chuckles were outside, he turned to his second. 

“Spread the word on Marbles’ sentence. I want my boys keepin’ an eye on him, hear?”

“Course Spot. I’ll do it now.” Chuckles was a good second. He was loyal to Spot to a fault and just as reliable. It didn’t hurt that Spot had been the one to find him and train him up as a newsie. Spot had found Chuckles hungry and penniless, begging just to get by after both his parents died of consumption. Under Spot’s careful watch, Chuckles had never starved again. You couldn’t buy the sort of loyalty that brought. And when you was king of Brooklyn, that sort of loyalty was the only sort you could count on.


	7. Learning the Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Okay, then whaddya want?” 
> 
> “Want? Whaddya mean, want?” Spot squinted at him before speaking as he would to an exceptionally slow child.
> 
> “You took a soaking for Pup on my turf. I owes ya. An’ I wanna square away that debt. So. Whaddya want?” Now it made sense. Spot was trying to level the playing field again. This was all some power play based on a skewed perception of equality. Racetrack dealt in money, not favors.

It took Racetrack a few days to get back into the swing of things, and Spot visited every one of those days. Each time it was quick. Race would wake up, Spot would hand him a cigar, and then he’d vanish the moment he heard someone coming to check in on Race. How Spot managed to hear Jack’s couriers before Race, well, that was something Race hadn’t figured out yet. But it was pretty darn impressive. 

But today Race was headed to the Sheepshead with a bag full of papes and a spring in his step. No more bed rest, no more being a burden on his friends, and no more cryptic visits from Spot Conlon. Instead he was going to bet on a race or five, and celebrate feeling the sun on his face. 

It was a great day. Race actually won two of his three bets, and returned home with a little extra money in his pocket. Dinner with the newsies was the same entertaining ruckus it always was, and he managed to fit in a game of chess with Crutchy. That boy was real smart, and Racetrack always liked learning new games. Chess was a little slow for him, but it was good to have a backup. 

The day had been blissfully Spot free until Race track went upstairs to his bedroom and found a cigar resting on his pillow. How long was Spot going to keep this up? It was ridiculous. Pocketing the cigar, Race resolved to take the matter to Brooklyn in the morning. Besides, he’d been meaning to check up on Pup anyway.

And when the morning dawned bright and beautiful, Race made his way over the bridge. He had heard the Brooklyn boys had been extra rough lately, but he doubted anyone would bother him. 

Sure enough, he was barely four feet into Brooklyn when several newsies dropped from whatever perch they had been assigned to and started walking with him, flanking him almost. Racetrack couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow.

“All this for little ole me?”

“Spot’d kill us if something happened ta ya, Race. Ain’t takin’ no chances,” said Leaf simply. Well, that was fair. So Racetrack thought no more of it and started ribbing them for the gossip he had missed out on during his short sabbatical. Mostly he had missed a ton of fights. Things had gotten especially rough with Harlem the last few days. Race wasn’t sorry to have missed that. 

The small group of newsies led Racetrack right to Spot’s throne on the pier. Spot was staring off into the sea, twirling his cane from hand to hand and ignoring the clatter around him. The boys broke off from Racetrack when they reached Chuckles who nodded at them. Then, before Racetrack could even speak, Spot turned around and headed over.

“You’s looking better,” he said neutrally. Race shrugged with one shoulder.

“Perks of stayin’ in bed. You should try it some day.” Spot made a face that told Race exactly what he thought of that suggestion.

“You here for cards?” Race shook his head.

“I’s here for you.”

“Me?” Spot acted all surprised but Racetrack was beginning to see through his enigmatic face and thought he detected a bit of a pleased smirk. So Racetrack gave a sincere grin of his own. 

“You.” He couldn’t help but notice that Spot’s newsies were giving them a wide berth at the pier. For all intents and purposes, this was about as private as a conversation with Spot was likely to get. But Spot was still in hollering distance of any of his boys in case something went wrong. It was a display of power set up to make Racetrack feel at ease. And Racetrack didn’t like it. There was no fun in politics. And in Brooklyn it was all politics.

“Alright, lay it on me,” said Spot. Racetrack started shuffling cards in his hands. It was a tick; he couldn’t help himself. 

“No more cigars, you hear me? Those things ain’t easy to come by, even for the great Spot Conlon and I sure as hell’s got enough for a long time.” That, and receiving gifts made him uncomfortable. Nobody ever gave him anything, and now Spot was suddenly handing out free cigars? It set his nerves on edge. Spot shrugged.

“Okay, then whaddya want?” 

“Want? Whaddya mean, want?” Spot squinted at him before speaking as he would to an exceptionally slow child.

“You took a soaking for Pup on my turf. I owes ya. An’ I wanna square away that debt. So. Whaddya want?” Now it made sense. Spot was trying to level the playing field again. This was all some power play based on a skewed perception of equality. Racetrack dealt in money, not favors.

“Look, you don’t gotta do nothing for me. I did what I’d do for anyone, honest. We square.” He spit in his hand and held it out to demonstrate that. But Spot didn’t take it. Instead he watched Race with his imperceptible grey eyes. 

“We’s ain’t square. We’s square when I says we’s square. I ain’t gonna ask again. Whaddya want?” Now Race knew from experience that this could get real bad real fast. On the sidelines, two or three newsies had already noticed the glare on their leader’s face and had tensed up in anticipation. Time to diffuse. Well, it was what Racetrack did best.

“Play a card game with me,” Racetrack said. Spot’s whole face went from serious and hostile to honestly surprised. He had Spot all off kilter now. That was good. Race pressed his advantage, same as gambling. “Play cards with me, yeah? We’s don’t gotta let your boys join and we’s don’t gotta play for money. But play a card game with me. Then we’s square.” He kept his hand extended and repressed a gleeful whoop when Spot slowly spat into his hand and returned the shake. 

“Not today though,” Spot said once the deal was struck. “Today somebody else wants ta see you.” He nodded to one of his newsies and two seconds later, a small blur hurtled towards Racetrack. Race barely had time to make out Pup’s features before he had an armful of the tiny child.

“Hiya, Pup,” he said, returning the hug.

“Race, Race, Race! Race, you came back! I thought ya wouldn’t but Spot said you’d be back today and he was right! Hi Race!” Racetrack bit back a laugh at Pup’s excitement and let the kid drag him around the docks, talking all the while.

The rest of his visit was dominated by Pup, who apparently decided to live up to his name to show his appreciation for Race’s timely rescue the other day. It was pretty endearing. He always had a soft spot for little kids.Then it was time to head back to Manhattan and to Jack, and even though there was no sign of it, Racetrack knew Spot had his boys guard him the whole way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey thanks for reading this far! any feedback or suggestions or anything would be greatly appreciated!


	8. The Sheepshead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ah yes, the ever social Racetrack Higgins. Spot didn’t understand it. Every boy belonged to a borough, and there he should stay. And yet Racetrack moved all over New York like it was his own personal land, holding gentlemen’s agreements with every ruling power that be, even Spot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys sorry for the long wait for this chapter! I was a little nervous posting it. so please be warned that there is mention of child abuse in this chapter. It's not graphic or anything, but it's there. thank you for reading! I'm always open to feedback

Spot stared up at the board proclaiming today's headlines. Next to him, Chuckles slowly read them out loud to himself. 

"There's a trolley strike. What do ya think of that, Spot?" 

"Bad for 'em, good for us. Let's hope it was bloody." And that it didn't drag on too long. People liked a quick upset, but this wouldn't hold attention for more than a day or two. 

They got in line to buy their papers. Spot was always careful to divide people equally around Brooklyn based on hawking talent and need. Those who needed a cute face to help them out got one. Those who worked better alone had their own haunts. More kids were in the more prosperous areas. Etcetera. Through Spot's careful planning, Brooklyn pushed more papers than anyone else. 

"The usual, Spot?" asked the manager, Mr. Flannery. Spot slammed down his coins in answer. 

"150 for Mr. Conlon," Mr. Flannery announced. Spot took his stack and watched the rest of his boys move through the booth. Once he was sure they was all off hawking, he set off himself. 

It took him barely two hours to either charm or intimidate enough people to shift his first hundred papes. Then he took his remaining fifty and headed to a shady alley he knew well. 

"How you boys doin'?" Spot called out. There was a general rustle as a few boys poked their heads out of the blankets most people mistook for rags. These kids didn't have enough money to get even part of a bunk in the lodging house or buy twenty papes for themselves: they were fresh out of the Refuge. Every day Spot bought fifty extra papes and gave them to these kids to shift and keep the money for themselves. That way they would eventually be able to scrape together enough to get a bed and start hawking on their own. As king of Brooklyn, Spot took care of all his subjects, not just the ones who were convenient to him. 

There was a chorus of "Thanks Spot" as Spot handed out the papes. He couldn't afford to give away hard earned cash or food, but he could do this. And with these kids being fresh out of the Refuge, he couldn't imagine not. 

"Remember, you need something, you come to me. Now get sellin’." Spot left them and took to walking around his territory. He liked to be a constant presence to his boys; it kept them in line. 

His kids were doing well. And if he saw Boots crossing over to steal some time with Buttons, well, as long as Boots didn't sell anything on this side, that was fine. Besides, he enjoyed Boots' attempts to butter him up by bringing good shooters for his slingshot. 

His travel brought him down near the racetrack and he stopped. The tracks were the one place he rarely frequented. It was probably why Race always got away with selling there. The drunk, angry men set Spot's teeth on edge and avoided it best he could. Today, however, he decided to brave the hordes. He wanted to check in with Race about that card game. Get his debt squared away. 

Sure enough, he found Race surrounded by a group of men playing cards. Half of Race's papers still needed to be sold, but he didn't seem to care as he dazzled and swindled the men out of their money in poker. Spot would guess that Race was losing just as much as he was making from horse bets. Race was notorious for always betting on the wrong horse. Even with a foolproof tip.

Spot was content to wait for Racetrack to notice him, and it only took a few minutes. When he did, he wrapped up his game pretty quick and sauntered over to Spot.

“Hey, whaddya doing in my part of town?” Spot sneered.

“I think you’ll find the Sheepshead is on my turf. This is Brooklyn. I should throw ya out for tryin’ to peddle here.” But there was no heat in Spot’s words. Brooklyn may be Spot’s, but the Sheepshead was Race’s. Everyone knew that. 

“So what can I do ya for?” Race asked as he gave his cards one more shuffle before they disappeared into his pockets.

“When we having that card game?” Spot asked before he could help himself. Race released a low whistle.

“Wow you really can’t wait to get that outta the way, can ya?” Race grinned at him. Spot flushed and hated himself for it. 

“Just making sure we’s on the same page is all. So?” Race shrugged.

“I dunno. I gotta be getting back myself. I wanna grab some grub before I head over to Woodside.” Ah yes, the ever social Racetrack Higgins. Spot didn’t understand it. Every boy belonged to a borough, and there he should stay. And yet Racetrack moved all over New York like it was his own personal land, holding gentlemen’s agreements with every ruling power that be, even Spot. 

“I’ll walk you to the bridge,” Spot volunteered. Race didn’t protest, and so Spot followed him to collect his winnings and then head out. 

“How much you win today?” Spot asked after Race finished doing business. Race flashed a smile.

“Oh a bit or two.” Shoving his coins into his pocket, he pointed at the exit. “Shall we?” Spot was more than ready. Between the raucous shouting and the smell of liquor everywhere, he had been ready to leave the moment he arrived. They started walking. Behind them, Spot could make out someone shouting the name “Sean” within all the ruckus. He sped up.

“C’mon, Race,” he said. But then a large, beefy hand clamped down on his upper arm and pulled, spinning him to face the red-faced man who had been shouting. Race stopped in his tracks as Spot’s eyes flashed and he tried to pull free.

“Let go,” Spot spat with all the venom of a cornered snake. The man simply laughed in a way that made the hairs on the back of Spot’s neck stand on edge.

“What have we here? Boy I ain't seen you for some years. I thoughts you was dead. Looks like you'll be coming on home with me, Sean." Spot’s response was to lob a wad of saliva onto his cheek. The man, whom Spot refused to acknowledge by name, grunted and backhanded Spot so hard he fell over. Race finally recovered his wits.

“Hey!” he shouted. “Leave him alone!” But Spot had already clambered to his feet, ready to be slammed to the ground again and glaring viciously. Race snarled in an ugly expression Spot had never seen on the good-natured newsie’s face, grabbed Spot’s cane, and knocked the man’s feet out from under him. Spot used the distraction to grab Race’s hand.

“Run!” They took off. Once they were a good way from the Sheepshead, Spot located one of his alleys and yanked Race in with him. They both panted for a minute, catching their breaths. Then Race straightened up.

“What the hell was that, Conlon?” Oh last name. That was never good coming from Racetrack. “Who was that?” Spot raised one hand up to his mouth to test how bad the hit was. His lip was split and blood dribbled down his chin. And then Race took a step forward and Spot reacted automatically with a flinch. He cursed. Well if he hadn’t given the game away already, he had now. He tensed defiantly, waiting for a remark, anything. But Racetrack’s face softened almost imperceptibly. Slowly he reached into his pocket and pulled out a mostly dirty handkerchief and offered it to Spot. 

Spot glared and sneered but he accepted it anyway and started cleaning the blood off his face. It was certainly going to bruise. Race was still waiting for an explanation, and, as much as Spot hated to admit it, he rather owed him one. Why was he constantly owing Racetrack favors? This had to stop. So he’d pay this one back with a bit of the truth. 

“That man’s my pa, technically, but he’s really just a heartless bastard,” he growled. And Racetrack was suddenly shuffling his cards again.

“You’ve got a pop?” The second question was unspoken but heard nonetheless. If Spot had a family, what the hell was he doing living in the Brooklyn Lodging House? Most people assumed Spot was an orphan, like most of them, and he never corrected them. There weren’t many people who knew Spot from when he first arrived at the lodging house with a broken arm and a desperate, pinched expression. 

“He’s an asshole. When I’s ran away and the newsies first took me in, I was covered with so many bruises I looked spotted.”

“Spot,” breathed Racetrack, finally understanding the origin of Spot’s name. Spot nodded. Only three or four people still lived who knew that, and Spot wanted to keep it that way. It was hard to instill fear in your enemies if they thought of you as a starving, beat up kid. 

“I never knew,” Race said after a painful pause. Spot glared, his eyes glittering and his body still shaking with adrenaline and fear.

“And you ain’t tellin’ anyone, hear? Or I’ll give ya a soaking you’ll never forget.” But something in the threat was lost when Spot’s jaw was swollen and he looked barely put together. Race gave him a long look. Then he moved forward. Spot braced himself for a fight, but found himself at a loss when Race just put his arms around Spot and hugged him.

Spot couldn’t remember the last time someone hugged him. Sure, he gave affection to the little ones all the time, but that was mostly pushing down their caps or ruffling their hair or slinging his arm over their shoulders. This was different. He was pressed close into Racetrack’s dirty vest, inhaling cigar smoke and sweat and New York with two heavy arms wrapped around him, holding tight. 

It was strange. It was intimate. It was warm. And it filled a hole deep inside of Spot that he hadn’t even been aware he had. 

But it would completely ruin Spot’s reputation if anyone found out. Quickly he shoved Race of off him. Racetrack just chuckled as Spot hung by the wall, breathing harshly, and watching Race with narrowed, dark eyes.

“It’s just a hug, Spot, it ain’t a sign of weakness.”

“This?” said Spot, gesturing between the two of them. “Never happened. Got it?” Racetrack shrugged.

“I ain’t out to hurt you or your reign. The sooner you get that, the sooner you can relax.” He placed a hand on Spot’s shoulder, and Spot’s nostrils flared. You did not touch the king of Brooklyn. Not without permission.

“Why don’t you head home, Spot?” said Racetrack kindly, lighting his cigar with a flourish. “Your secret’s safe with me.” Spot aimed for his trademark sneer but it fell flat.

“See that it is, Higgins, or I’ll be after ya.” Spot was still glaring at Racetrack’s retreating back until he turned around and gave that same kind smile that make Spot’s teeth hurt.

“And just so’s you know, my real name’s Tony. See? I know something ‘bout you, you know something ‘bout me. We’s even.” And for once, Racetrack had the dramatic exit.


	9. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I ain’t bribing you, I’m thanking you. I don’t know how else to.”

Racetrack rolled the cigar between his fingers thoughtfully. He hadn’t been to Brooklyn since his last run in with Spot over a week ago. And yet tonight when he had crawled into bed to go to sleep, there had been a shiny new cigar waiting under his pillow. It was good timing too, seeing as how he’d just bet away his last one. 

Racetrack wasn’t sure what to do about Spot Conlon. Or, more accurately, he didn’t know what to do with this new information he was sitting on. Sure, he didn’t plan on telling no one what he had learnt about Spot, but it did change his perception of the child king rather significantly. 

The strongest rumor for Spot’s name origins was that when they had found him after toppling Brooklyn’s last king, he had been covered in spots of blood. Race had halfway believed it. Spot may be the best king he had ever seen last in Brooklyn, but everyone knew the old one only got uncrowned through a bloodbath. No Brooklyn king ever made it to adulthood. 

“Everything ok, Race?” Racetrack looked up and saw Snipeshooter peering at him in the darkness. He flashed a grin.

“Yeah. Go to sleep, kiddo.” Once Snipeshooter had settled back under the covers, Racetrack crawled out the window and onto the roof. He wanted to think. But when he got there, his normal spot was already occupied by someone else. Rolling his eyes, he took a seat next to the visitor.

“Hiya Spot. Thanks for the cigar.” Spot’s face had healed up fine, and there were already five new rumors circulating about how he got it. The prevailing theory was that he punched a cop. “Whaddya doin’ in these parts? Jack’ll soak ya if he finds out you’re spending time in Manhattan without talking to him first.” 

“Jackie boy wouldn’t stop me,” Spot scoffed, and he was probably right. Then he handed over a crumpled brown bag. Racetrack opened it curiously. There was a thick, delicious looking deli sandwich in the bag. He looked back at Spot.

“You’s don’t gotta buy my silence. I said I wouldn’t tell and I’m a man o’ my word,” Racetrack said, just a touch offended. Spot shook his head, not looking at Racetrack.

“I ain’t tryin’ to buy your silence. If I had any real doubts, I’d’a had my boys take care of you.” It was a comforting statement, in a mildly threatening way. After all, it meant that on some level, Spot Conlon trusted little old Racetrack. 

“Then why’s you doing this?” It was cool outside tonight. The summer was starting to get sweltering, but late at night on the rooftops there was a sweet breeze. 

“I ain’t bribing you, I’m thanking you. I don’t know how else to.” It was an oddly honest moment from Spot Conlon. Race was finding he liked the kid more and more as they spent time away from Spot’s posse. 

“For what?” Spot shrugged, idly tracing the top of his cane.

“You hit him back. I could never do that.” It took Racetrack a second to realize what Spot was talking about. The moonlight highlighted all of Spot’s sharp edges, and for a second he looked small and young and hopelessly lost. 

“I don’t even know why you helped me out back there,” said Spot, and then he was the king again. “I ain’t Manhattan or even a kid. You got no reason.” Was Spot serious? Like Racetrack would ever leave a fellow newsie in the lurch. Sure it had taken him a second to react, but seeing Spot, who flinched at nothing, honest to god scared had frightened Racetrack.

“Nah, but we’s friends, right? I ain’t gonna let any of my friends get a soaking when I’m around,” answered Racetrack. Spot turned sharply to look at him for the first time tonight. A frown covered his pointy face.

“What’s that now? You’s from Manhattan. You ain’t Brooklyn.” 

“Yeah, but I also don’t let people think I beat another guy to death with a cane in order to rule Brooklyn, so no one’s perfect,” retorted Racetrack. He wasn’t upset, however. He was pretty sure Spot just didn’t know how to react to someone calling him a friend. That was okay. Racetrack considered almost everyone a friend. He had plenty of experience. Spot stood, rolling his shoulders.

“Eat the sandwich ‘fore it goes bad.” Then he was gone. Racetrack didn’t really like being told what to do, but he was hungry, so he pulled the sandwich out. It was pastrami, his favorite. The fact that Spot had brought his favorite sandwich shouldn’t surprise him anymore, but it still did. With a light smile on his face, he ate half of it. He’d give the rest to Kid Blink tomorrow, who hadn’t been selling too well lately. And now it was time to go to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's such a short update! thanks again for reading!


	10. Splintering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Spot, I’s thinks you managed to upset the most easy going newsie this side’a New York,” Chuckles said lightly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! just a warning that the word "queer" is used as a slur in this chapter as was the historical context. please let me know if you need this warning archived better. thanks for reading!

“Second week of that trolley strike?” complained Spot after Chuckle’s traditional narration of the day’s headlines. He scowled up at the large, unforgiving blackboard. That weren’t good for sales. And Brooklyn needed good sales. He had a reputation to maintain. “Tell the boys to let the younger kids front today. We’s gonna need their cute factor.”

“Got it,” nodded Chuckles. “Anything else?” Spot surveyed his empire. 

“Have the lodging house leaders report to me once they’s done.” Chuckles rushed off to bring the word to Spot’s birdies to spread. He returned once everyone had their papes.

“You still want me shadowing Race today?”

“Yeah, I got Finch covering your spot. If he’s loses big again today, change that books like I taught ya,” instructed Spot. With a last nod, Chuckles left to do his king’s bidding. 

Spot shifted his papers in no time, delivered his extras, and headed off to his room at the lodging house. As king, he got his own private room in the main lodging house, but that didn’t mean he could stop watching his back. He had even positioned Chuckle’s bunk right outside the door as sort of a rudimentary guard. He could never be safe, even with his own boys. 

Once the door was shut and locked, Spot relaxed, but only marginally. He had a meeting with the head of Midtown later today and tomorrow was the Bowery and East Bronx. It was the time of year to review deals and contracts, and Spot wanted to sort out how much extra he could bleed them for. So he paced his room and muttered and tapped his cane against the floor as he planned until the first knock from some of his returning boys sounded. He unlocked the door.

“Yeah?” he said with a jerk of his chin. Sweets twisted his hat awkward in his hands.

“You’s right, Spot. Sellin’s down.” They went over numbers and then Spot dismissed them. Spot had never had a head for book learning, but he had a head for numbers and as his newsies trickled in to report their day’s earnings, he counted and considered and organized it all in his head. He was still thinking when Chuckles returned.

“So?” he barked as Chuckles shut the door behind him. 

“He spent the day at the Sheepshead and sold all his papes. He’s back on East Side now, heading to West Side tonight. He sent ya this.” Chuckles held out a slip of paper. Spot’s eyes narrowed but he didn't reach to take the note. 

“He saw ya?” 

“He knows I’s your second. Recognized me, he did. Want me to read it?” Spot nodded.

“It says ‘stop followin’ me.’ Spot, I’s thinks you managed to upset the most easy going newsie this side’a New York,” Chuckles said lightly. Spot glared.

“It say anything else?” He wasn’t sure why he was having Chuckles follow Racetrack around while in Brooklyn territory, but he couldn’t get himself to stop the order. Racetrack fascinated Spot. Had fascinated him since the beginning and the fascination had only increased since that strange hug. Spot didn’t know what to do with that. So he had Chuckles follow Race, make sure the newsie was taken care of. Jack was a good leader when it came to city and borough negotiations, but he lacked the finesse to notice when his boys weren’t doing great. One on one was where it mattered, Spot believed. One on one was where loyalty was built. His boys had to know he was there for each and every one of them, not just all of Brooklyn as a group. And as long as Race sold this side of the tracks, that made him partially one of them. So Spot would take care of him.

“That’s all it says. You wanna keep it?” Spot did. He took the scrap of paper and squinted at Racetrack’s illegible handwriting. 

“What’d ya tell him when he caught you?” He tossed Chuckles his day’s earnings as he spoke. 

“That I was covering the tracks for the day, but he saw through it. Said you wouldn’t assign no newsie when you knows he’s got that locked down.” Racetrack was smart. A little too smart for his own good. Spot picked at a loose thread in his cuff thoughtfully.

“You’s tell him tomorrow that as long as he’s doing business in Brooklyn, there’s always gonna be eyes on him. Just’a way of it.” Race wouldn’t appreciate it, but he would respect it. Plus it sounded better than the real reason Spot was having him watched, which Spot didn’t even know.

“Spot, can I ask? What’s this about?” Chuckles said tentatively. Spot took a good look at his second. Chuckles was a big guy, and people usually assumed that he weren’t all that bright, and Spot used that assumption to his advantage. But Chuckles was a smart kid. Before he lost his parents he had gone to school and everything. He had always followed and respected Spot, despite technically being older, and had never given Spot cause to doubt his loyalty. He knew most of Spot’s most important secrets. Spot supposed he could share one more.

“I dunno,” Spot finally admitted. “I likes him, sure, but there’s something else there. Till I gets it settled out, I’s wants ta know what he’s doin’.” Chuckles looked at him seriously for a moment and then spoke.

“I can do that for ya, Spot.” He was about to say more when they heard the tell tale sound of a scuffle outside, and a violent one at that. Spot took off. 

When he got out there, two boys, Spit and Twitch, were beating up on a boy Spot recognized to be Leaf. Spot’s eyes flashed and he tapped his cane imperiously. Brooklyn didn’t hurt Brooklyn; not on his watch.

They broke apart at the noise. Spit and Twitch were twins and had been a handful since before the last king. They had been nearing eighteen for three years now, and couldn’t really pull off the boyish charm necessary to sell papes. At the end of this year, they’d have to leave. Everyone knew that. And yet here they were, risking Spot’s temper, beating up poor Leaf.

Chuckles moved in smoothly between them to pull Leaf out and press a rag to his bloody nose. Spot tapped his cane again. The other newsies around the building gathered cautiously. Something was going down. 

“Spot, we was just --” started Twitch.

“Leaf deserved it --” Spit spoke over Twitch. Spot tapped his cane again. They fell silent. Everyone waited for Spot. After letting the tension sit for a minute, he turned to Leaf.

“Wanna explain?” He noticed how Leaf was trembling and his eyes were red like he was crying and how he shrank back in fear from Spot. Interesting. So whatever had caused Spit and Twitch to jump him, he thought Spot’d side with them on it. He turned back to Spit and Twitch. He pointed the cane at Spit and enjoyed the flicker of fear in Spit’s eyes. Good.

“Explain.” Spit and Twitch exchanged looks before Spit licked his lips and rushed into an explanation. 

“Leaf’s a fucking queer. Caught him kissing another boy from East Side.” There was a titter among the gathered newsies as Spot digested the information. One of Kelly’s boys then. Why was it always one of Kelly’s boys? Oh well, first’s first.

“Leaf, that true?” Leaf nodded, shaking like, well, like a leaf in the wind. Spot’s jaw tightened as he turned back to Spit and Twitch. He had to tread carefully now. This could lose him the respect of his boys if he handled it wrong. 

“And that’s grounds for a soakin’ now?” Another ripple passed through the newsies. No one had expected that response. Granted, no one had known what to expect in the first place. Always be unpredictable. It made it easier to hold power. Twitch shifted angrily.

“He’s a fucking queer, Spot. I says that’s grounds enough.” Spot’s face gave nothing away and even the boys who supported Twitch’s statement didn’t dare cheer. He took a few steps towards Spit and Twitch, tapping his cane.

“I don’t cares what he is. Brooklyn don’t hurt Brooklyn. What mades you think this was an exception?” More tittering. He didn’t look at anyone else as he started down Spit and Twitch. Sure, there were two of them and they were both taller and bulkier than Spot, but Spot was scarier. They shrank. 

“What he is ain’t okay,” said Spit in a slightly more uncertain voice. “We’s just tryin’ to help you out. He ain’t Brooklyn if he’s a queer.” 

“Says who?” Spot demanded. “He was born here, weren’t he? He works here, don’t he? He’s one of my newsies, ain’t he? That makes him Brooklyn. And no one hurts Brooklyn without talkin’ ta me first.” He started banging his cane against the cobblestones in a steady rhythm. 

“So’s here’s what I say. I say I don’t care if you’s a queer or not. I cares if you sell ya papes and respect Brooklyn. We ain’t in a habit of dis-crim-in-atin’. We’s in a habit of protecting our own. If you ain’t prepared to protect all of us, you ain’t one of us. You got that?” Spot whirled around, his face hard. Every eye was fixed on him.

“You got that?” he shouted. There was silence until --

“Yeah!” yelled one newsie. That broke the tide. Then a steady stream of newsies started vocalizing their support. There was more than one stormy face in the crowd, but Spot expected that. He stared each of them down until they flinched and avoided his eyes. Finally he returned his attention to Spit and Twitch.

“Now you’s listen here. Either you stand with me or you stand with nobody and you’s outta here. What’s it gonna be?” They were in a precarious place and they knew it. Spot had perfectly straddled the thin line between endorsing something most newsies would disapprove of and not taking a stance. He was protecting Leaf without approving or disapproving, which got almost all the boys on his side in one capacity or the other. It came to protecting one’s own and loyalty. If Spit and Twitch didn’t back down, they’d be out on their asses and they knew it.

“We’s with you,” Twitch said, although defiance lurked in his eyes. Spot still needed a show of power then. That was fine. He could do that. Swinging his cane almost cheerfully, he slammed it first into Twitch’s stomach and then Spit’s. They dropped like stones. 

“See that you is. Or you’s out.” And when he walked away from them, the crowd parted like the Red Sea for him. 

Spot took up residence on the docks in the aftermath. Chuckles was off tending to Leaf, so Spot had Sweets and Finch standing guard instead. No one bothered him. Later he would find out what the general feelings were from his birdies, but right now he wanted to think.

He had meant what he said. He had no problem with Leaf and he didn’t hold with Spit and Twitch soaking the kid over nothing. There was a reasonable number of newsies who were like Leaf, and Brooklyn had always been a safe space for them. After all, nothing got past Spot, and even though he knew about all of them, he didn’t out them or exile them. Other kings had not been so kind. 

But now he had explicitly stated that being queer wasn’t enough to soak someone. People might make assumptions. And it didn’t matter if the assumptions were right or not, the assumptions alone could give people enough motivation to go after his crown. That made things very dangerous for Spot.

Yet despite all that, he didn’t regret his choice to defend Leaf. He wouldn’t be bullied or pressured into leaving one of his boys in a lurch. Not today, not ever. 

“Spot.” It was Finch. Spot nodded once to show he was listening. “Runner just reported in. Coupla East Side boys are crossing the bridge. Bumlets, Racetrack, Boots, and Kid Blink. They ok to come through?”

“Yeah. And it ain’t prime selling hours so they ain’t gotta pay the toll. That it?” Spot continued staring out over the water as he spoke. It was Race’s standing card game today. He should’ve remembered. 

“Thanks Spot.” Finch walked away to update the runner and send him back to where the newsies guarding the bridge were waiting for instructions. 

By the time the Manhattan boys arrived, Spot was on his crate, whittling some driftwood with a knife. He nodded once at the boys when they looked over questioningly, giving them permission to set up their game. Boot went straight over to Buttons, where they held hands and blushed. Spot enjoyed watched Boots shyly hand Buttons a shoelace to replace hers, which was worn and broken. They were cute.

Finch came back. “Kid Blink wants to talk to you. That okay?” Spot pursed his lips as he considered it.

“Sure,” he shrugged. “Send ‘im over.” What on earth did a Manhattan boy want with the king? This wasn’t Racetrack; Kid Blink came to the card games occasionally but he stayed almost permanently in Manhattan the rest of the time. 

When Kid Blink walked over, he looked exceedingly nervous. Spot wasn’t sure if it was being in Brooklyn’s presence or whatever he had on his mind. Spot jerked his chin up in greeting, but otherwise continued whittling. 

“Uh, Spot, I, uh, I wanted to ask you something?” said Kid Blink.

“Yeah? What is it?” asked Spot disinterestedly. There was more shuffling from the normally confident newsie.

“When we was playin’ cards, Hot Dog mentioned what you did today. For Leaf, that is.” Ah. Spot didn’t react. He just waited.

“What I wanted to know was if - if things ever get out and go bad in Manhattan, could Mush and I come here? Would we be safe here?” And there it was. Spot looked up as last, but he kept his face unreadable.

“You ‘n’ Mush a thing?” Blink blushed, but he confirmed it with a nod. 

“And you don’ think Kelly would let ya stay?”

“I dunno. I’d like to have someplace safe I could bring Mush if it eva goes sour though.” That was an understandable concern. Spot had his own suspicions about Jack, despite all Cowboy’s flirting and brash talk, but his birds had yet to confirm it. 

“You wanna come here?” asked Spot unblinkingly. “You ain’t Brooklyn.” 

“Yeah, but you stood up for Leaf an’ - an’- I never known no one to stand up for someone like me before. Specially not the likes of you. You’s famous, and you let ‘im be,” pressed Kid Blink. Now Spot didn’t want to become an open market, taking in refugees from all over. There weren’t enough business for that. But he liked Kid Blink, and he felt bad for the kid’s plight. 

“If things go south - and on’y then, then yes. But you’s gotta understand that if you come to Brooklyn, you gotta be Brooklyn and that means doin’ as I say. You think you and Mush can handle that?” Spot responded once he was sure Kid Blink was truly sweating with worry. 

“Yeah, yeah, for sure, Spot, thanks a whole bunch, I owe ya.” And that? That was music to Spot’s ear.

“Now scram. I’m busy.” Kid Blink rushed off, not before giving Spot a blinding smile. As Spot watched him rejoin the others, he noticed Racetrack’s eyes on them. Racetrack cocked his head questioningly when he caught Spot’s glance. Spot only smirked. Let Racetrack wonder. This weren’t none of his business. 

The Manhattan newsies left when the sun set. Spot watched his boys a bit longer and shuffled the younger ones off to bed. It wasn’t until the docks were empty of newsies that he returned to his own room to settle down for the night. The king didn’t get a lot of sleep. In all actuality, there weren’t that many perks to being king of Brooklyn, but these were Spot’s people, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.


	11. Nobody Told the Horse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What’d he do to get the loyalty of a guy like you?” Chuckles was honorable to the extreme, and Brooklyn was not known for its honorable newsies. It was known for its bloodbaths, overly muscular kids, and the short yet vicious reigns of its various kings.

“Hey, look at this! Baby born with two heads? Must be from Brooklyn.” Race cackled to himself as he pictured Spot’s reaction to that assumption and continued to pursue the morning edition. Maybe he would try and find Spot later, just to tell him that. Then he remembered that he was technically mad at Spot for having him followed in Brooklyn. Well, if Spot was going to be annoying, then he’d just have to miss out on Racetrack’s excellent humor.

Overall, however, the headlines stunk. The trolley strike was getting real boring, dragging on for a third week. But luckily he could work with the rest of the pape and come up with some good titles. 

It hadn’t been a great start to the morning. Snipeshooter had tried to steal the last of Spot’s cigars and Race had felt unreasonably possessive over it. Then the Delancey brothers had tried to start a fight, but Jack beat them real good, and that always cheered Racetrack right up. Add the entertainment of these new kids, complaining about the number of papes, and Race was feeling alright again.

They looked a little more put together and a hell of a lot cleaner than the rest of the newsies milling about. Race had no doubt Jack would be taking them under his wing to find out their deal. Sure enough, he called out for Race to spot him two bits. Race had no problem with that. Jack would pay him back, and even if he didn’t, Race was always game for helping out a friend. 

The kids’ names were Davey and Les Jacobs. After Jack had set off to go sell papes with them, Race headed over to the Sheepshead. He had a hot tip on a horse and money burning a hole in his pocket. He was going to win big today, he could feel it.

Race had only been at the racetrack an hour before he noticed Chuckles milling about the area like usual. Rolling his eyes, he crossed over to Spot’s lackey.

“He ain’t given up on this yet?” sighed Race. Chuckles shook his head. He wasn’t even pretending to sell papes anymore. This had been their routine for the last two weeks. At least Race had gotten pretty friendly with Spot’s second, although he still didn’t know the reason for Chuckles’ nickname. That kid barely cracked a smile, never mind a full laugh.

“Spot says the tip you got on the horse was a bum tip. Don’t play it,” said Chuckles, dutifully repeating Spot’s message like always. Race shook his head.

“Too late for that. ‘M I allowed ta sell papes or you gonna follow me too?” He couldn’t help but sound a little annoyed. Chuckles’ dark eyes bored into Racetrack seriously, apparently taking a slight offense to the tone.

“This is Spot’s way of telling you he likes ya. He takes care of his own. You’s his own now. That’s a good thing,” said Chuckles. Racetrack started shuffling his cards as they settled down to watch the horses.

“What’d he do to get the loyalty of a guy like you?” Chuckles was honorable to the extreme, and Brooklyn was not known for its honorable newsies. It was known for its bloodbaths, overly muscular kids, and the short yet vicious reigns of its various kings. Chuckles shrugged as he accepted a puff on Race’s cigar.

“He fished me outta the gutter. I was more’n half dead when he found me. All the other boys declared me a lost cause but he shared his food and taught me the ropes and always made sure I got a fair shake at whatever was goin’ on. I’d’a died without ‘im. But I ain’t alone in that. Lotta boys owes him everything,” said Chuckles slowly. It was the most Race had heard him say, and it was all very measured and thought out. Chuckles really was more than just Spot’s main muscle; he was Spot’s second in every way. 

“You got loyalty like that in Manhattan?”

“We’s a family,” shrugged Racetrack. It was corny, but it was true. Maybe Jack was technically their leader when it came to negotiating with the other newsie groups, but they were really all equals when it came down to it. Race liked that. He didn’t think he could deal with the politics and hierarchies a lot of other boroughs employed. He preferred an easier way of life. 

The horse lost. Race cursed silently as he tried to figure out where that’d put his financials for the week. He better sell all his papes. 

“Hey, why ain’t you sellin’?” Race asked as he resumed his rounds. Chuckles shrugged.

“Spot’s got that taken care of, seein’ as I’m here.” Must be nice to not have to worry like that. Well, Race still had to work for a living. After a while, Chuckles grabbed a handful of Race’s newspapers and started hawking them too. They made short work of the stack together. 

“Wanna come back to the pier?” Chuckles asked when they finished. Race chewed on his cigar as he considered it. On one hand, he had been thinking of going down to Harlem. On the other, he relished the chance to finally tell Spot to his face to stop having Race shadowed. He’d sent a note with that sentiment almost every day, but Chuckles still showed up regardless. The second option was too tempting to pass up.

“Sure.” 

When they arrived, Spot was holding court. His eyebrows were furrowed seriously as his newsies brought concerns and complaints to their king. Racetrack took up with a few of the boys hanging about and started a game of dice. He had to be careful not to lose too much. Granted, however, this was Brooklyn so he couldn’t afford to win too much either. Weren’t no newsie like a pissed Brooklyn newsie.

After a few rounds, Racetrack noticed that Chuckles was watching him. When he caught the kid’s gaze, Chuckles tipped his head towards Spot. That meant if Race wanted to get in a few words with Spot, he should go now. 

“Okay, gents, let’s settle up.” Once everyone had passed over their pennies, Racetrack headed over to Spot, his pockets jingling a little more than they had been before. It partially made up for the bum tip, but Race still had a ways to go if he wanted to cover that loss. 

“Spot Conlon, I’ve got words to have w’th you,” Racetrack said easily as Chuckles let him pass. Spot just smirked in that irritating way of his. 

“You’s gotta problem?” 

“Let Chuckles go back’ta work. He ain’t gotta follow me, ya hear? I’m fine on my own,” said Racetrack tightly. “I don’ like bein’ followed. I ain’t yours. I’m Manhattan’s.” Spot gave him a long appraising look. 

“You selling at Sheepshead, ain’t ya? Sheepshead’s in Brooklyn, ain’t it? You wanna sell in Sheepshead, you follow my rules.” Racetrack crossed his arms. 

“I’m Manhattan,” he repeated. “You’re not my king, Spot, you’s Brooklyn’s king. If you’re going to be so pigheaded, I won’t go to Sheepshead at all.” His response clearly took Spot aback. He blinked a few times, his mouth one tense line. 

“You’re tryin’ ta have a go at me, Higgins?” he spat. From the corner of his eye, Racetrack could see several of the bigger Brooklyn newsies straighten up from their advantageous spots nearby. They were waiting. Only Chuckles seemed relaxed. Despite the looming threat if he dared so much as insult the king, Racetrack didn’t back down.

“Just telling you how’s it is,” snapped Racetrack. There was another long pause. Then Spot did the most surprising thing he had done since Racetrack met him. He backed down.

“Okay. Chuckles’ll be back to his normal spots tomorrow. You’s can go to Sheepshead whenever you’s like. But I ain’t changing my methods of watching things around here. So you’ll still be observed, but it’ll be the same way in which all people in Brooklyn are observed. Fair?” Was Spot Conlon actually compromising? Racetrack decided not to push his luck. 

“Fair.” He spat in his hand and extended it. Spot didn't’ hesitate to return the gesture. They shook. 

“You betta be runnin’ along home, Racetrack,” said Spot once they were done. His eyes were on the horizon. “Ain’t safe out here afta dark.”

“Even for friends of the king?” joked Racetrack. Something in Spot’s eyes lit up and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a ghost of a smile. Around them, the other newsies relaxed.

“For any newsie. Brooklyn’s a tough place, and you Manhattan boys’re real soft.” But he was actually smiling now, and Racetrack could tell the naming of Race as a Manhattan boy was intentional, a peace offering. Racetrack nodded.

“Yeah, we are. But I ain’t worried. Night, Spot.”

“Night, Race.” Rolling around the cigar in his pocket, Race gave Spot once last smile and left. The other newsies waved good night. 

He got back to Kloppman’s around the same time as Jack, who looked far more down than Race was feeling. Jack asked about Race’s day soberly. Racetrack gave him a wan smile.

“Remember that hot tip I told ya about?” Race asked as they entered.

“Yeah?” said Jack. Racetrack shrugged.

“Nobody told the horse.”


	12. Starting the Strike

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spot glared as the newsies assembled in front of them and they cowered. Tapping his cane on the wooden docks, he looked them over one by one. Runners from Midtown, Queens, Harlem, and all the boroughs of New York except Jack’s Manhattan. He pointed his cane at the Midtown runner.
> 
> “You.” It was a command to speak. The kid swallowed nervously.
> 
> “Ollie wants t’know if you’s joining Cowboy’s strike. We ain’t joining without Brooklyn.”

Spot glared as the newsies assembled in front of them and they cowered. Tapping his cane on the wooden docks, he looked them over one by one. Runners from Midtown, Queens, Harlem, and all the boroughs of New York except Jack’s Manhattan. He pointed his cane at the Midtown runner.

“You.” It was a command to speak. The kid swallowed nervously.

“Ollie wants t’know if you’s joining Cowboy’s strike. We ain’t joining without Brooklyn.” Spot’s face darkened. All morning his little birdies had brought back reports of Jack Kelly’s newsies going on strike against the price hike, and yet not a single one of Kelly’s newsies had brought the news to Spot. Honestly, Spot was a little more than pissed. He was feeling snubbed. Ain’t nobody got away with that. He pointed to West Bronx.

“You.”

“Same’s Midtown.” One by one he went through them all. Every borough, every city, every neighborhood, they all wanted to know what Spot Conlon and his newsies were going to do. That pleased Spot. It meant his reputation was solid. Everyone knew that the strike would end before it began without Spot. But Spot wasn’t going to promise his support to someone who didn’t even have the courtesy to ask, or at least send a runner. 

“Whaddya gonna do, Spot?” asked the Harlem newsie after they had all spoken and Spot had yet to respond. He upped his glare a few notches and Queens practically fell off the dock in fear.

“We’s waitin’. Now goes home a’fore I make’s ya,” he sneered. They scampered. Even his own newsies were hanging back, recognizing Spot’s foul mood. It weren’t good to get on Spot’s bad side. Not now, not ever. 

Still tapping his cane incessantly against the dock, Spot pointed to three of his newsies and beckoned. Marbles, Magnet, and The Goat rushed over.

“Yeah, Spot?” asked The Goat. 

“Go to the Bridge. I wanna knows the second any of Cowboy’s crew is heading over. Send one. The other two, delay ‘em. Got it?” The three boys nodded and rushed off to obey their instructions. Then Spot called over his biggest boys.

“When Jackie boy’s newsies gets here, you knows what to do.” They nodded. Then Spot went to his crate and waited. It wouldn’t be long.

He was right. Only forty minutes out and Magnet was back. 

“Jack Kelly, Boots, and the new kid Davey Jacobs are coming over. We’s set up plenty of road stops for ya.” 

“Okay boys, set up.” Jack was smart, bringing Boots. Spot liked Boots. He usually liked Kelly okay, but he wasn’t about to get his boys caught up in a strike on a whim. He had to take care of them, pick what was in their best interest. Not selling didn’t sound very profitable, even if Spot weren’t happy with the price hikes. 

Jack and his two newsies came into view not long after. Spot watched with satisfaction as his boys put on a show, running around, jumping off the docks, and intimidating them - everything he asked for. More than one newsie gave the small group a hard time getting to Spot. When they finally made it through, Spot spoke first, as was his right.

“Well if it ain’t Jack be nimble, Jack be quick,” he said from his position. Jack entered his court.

“Saw you moved up in the world, Spot. Got a river view and everything.” The comment, meant to remind Spot that Jack had known him before he was king, was not appreciated. Spot jumped down from his perch and gave Jack a look. Jack just grinned and spat in his hand. Spot let the offer of a friendly talk sit for a minute before he grasped Jack’s with his own spit-covered hand. He would hear Jack out. Anything less was bad for business. But he didn’t have to like it. Instead, he turned his attention to Boots, partially because he genuinely liked Boots and partially to remind Jack that he wasn’t running the show here. He ignored the stranger. You didn’t just bring a stranger unannounced into Brooklyn. 

“Hey, Boots, how’s it rollin’?” He loved the way Boots simply lit up whenever Spot was friendly to him. Boots rushed right over. 

“Think I got a coupla real nice shooters here,” he offered, hand outstretched. Pleased, Spot picked a few of the marbles out of Boots’s hand. See that was how you greeted a king. As he prepared to test one out, he turned his attention back to Jack. 

“So, uh, Jackie boy, I been hearin’ things from li’l birds,” Spot commented, almost casually, as he stretched back the rubber band in his slingshot. It creaked ominously. The new kid looked terrified. Good. 

“Yeah?” said Jack, with just a trace of nerves on his boyish face. He knew it was bad if Spot was the last one to find out. That was an insult to Spot and an insult to Brooklyn.

“Yeah,” confirmed Spot. He stretched the slingshot a little more, aiming for the beer bottle on a plank just above the new kid’s head. The new kid flinched, probably thinking Spot was aiming for him. 

“Things from Harlem, Queens,” he let the shooter go, smashing the bottle, “all over.” They looked suitably impressed, and Jack’s face had lost some of its confidence. Good. Spot continued talking.

“Been chirpin’ in my ear. Jackie boy’s newsies is playin’ like they going on strike,” he sneered. He walked past them dismissively. The new kid still looked terrified. 

“Yeah, well we are,” Jack said defiantly. 

“Well we’re not playing, we are going on strike,” broke in the new boy earnestly. His accent was a lot lighter than most newsies. Spot knew from his birds that this kid had a brother and a sister and two parents. What did he know about a hard life?

“Oh yeah? Yeah?” scoffed Spot, getting all up in the new kid’s face. Then he leaned back with a smirk. “What is this, Jackie boy? Some kinda walkin’ mouth?” Hey, that wasn’t a half bad name for the new kid. If Jack couldn’t introduce him, Spot would give him his own name despite: the Walking Mouth. He may already know the new kid’s actual name, but it was the principle of the thing that mattered. The Mouth looked between Spot and Jack. Despite his one show of bravery in talking to Spot, he looked like he might wet his pants. But Jack was never one to leave his friends hanging and surged forward to defend the Mouth.

“Yeah he’s a mouth and a brain, and if you’ve got halfa one, you’ll listen to what he’s gotta say,” said Jack. And see, this is why Spot didn’t trust Jack. Because Jack Kelly may play the innocent fool, but Spot was smart. He knew when he was being played. And Jack Kelly was trying to play him right now. All right, then, let him try. So Spot shrugged and nodded and went to sit down. He knew his boys were right behind him, big and hulking and threatening, waving heavy pipes and bats threateningly as they prepared to react however Spot wanted them to. Spot was ready to hear what they had to say. The Mouth spoke again.

“Well we started the strike, uh, but we can’t do it alone, so we’ve been talking to other newsies all around the city.” Spot’s face was stony and unreadable.

“Yeah,” he said, “so they told me. What did they tell you?” But he already knew the answer. It came in the form of the many runners he had witnessed today. He just wanted to see how the Mouth would answer. 

“They’re waiting to hear what Spot Conlon does, that you’re the key.” Spot couldn’t resist a slight smirk. Yes, he was. For once, Jack might’ve been right. This was a smart kid. The Mouth chose his words well, trying to flatter Spot into the movement. 

“That Spot Conlon is the most famous and respected newsies,” continued the Mouth, “in all of New York, and probably everywhere else. And if Spot Conlon joins the strike, then they’ll join. And we’ll be unstoppable. So you gotta join us. Be - well you gotta!” Now Spot was outright smirking. Flattery was always fun, even if it didn’t work. He nodded at Cowboy.

“Well you’re right, Jackie. Brains.” Spot drew his cane like unsheathing a sword. Behind him, he knew his boys would be shouldering up, increasing the intimidating factor. He stood. He had to play this carefully. 

“But I got brains too.” He tapped the cane and then brought it up to the Mouth’s nose. “And more than just half of one. How do I know you punks won’t run the first time some goon comes at you with a club? How do I know you got what it takes to win?” There was a pause as Spot glared seriously at the two of them, Boots all but forgotten. He had his boys to think about, didn’t he? He couldn’t enter unless they was sure to win. Jack shifted.

“Because I’m telling you, Spot.” Spot gave him a once over before turning back to look at his boys.

“That ain’t good enough, Jackie boy.” He gave them one last look over his shoulder. “You gotta show me.” And they were dismissed. He kept his back turned to them as Jack tried to engage Spot again, but Chuckles and some of the others muscled the three Manhattan newsies out. 

For once, Spot was not given a wide berth in the aftermath of the meeting. A bunch of newsies rushed right up to him in Cowboy’s wake, equal parts nervous and eager, and plenty more watched curiously from the sidelines. 

“So what are we going to do, Spot?”

“Yeah, are we goin’ on strike?” 

The questions started to roll in at a lightening fast pace until Spot held up a hand. They silenced immediately. 

“We ain’t goin’ on strike,” snapped Spot. There was general shuffling and disappointed sights. Then Spot let his grin grow sharp. “Yet.” And his boys perked right back up. Tapping his cane on the wooden dock, Spot started walking around to make eye contact with as many newsies as possible.

“Jackie boy’s got one thing right. The new price ain’t fair. But we’re gonna wait and see how Manhattan does a’fore we decides to join ‘em. So we’ll give it a few days. For now, sell like usual. But don’ worry. I’ll take care of ya.” His boys nodded approvingly. They wanted to go on strike, Spot knew, but he wasn’t signing them up for something that would just wreck them. He wanted to be sure they could win first.


	13. The Strike Continues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Racetrack held eyes with Chuckles. If he had to make a scene to see Spot, he would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys! again thanks for reading. as you may have noticed, I'm at the part where the story and the movie overlap. So as to not bore you too horribly, I'm mostly doing the parts of the movie we don't see. if you'd rather I do more of the exact scenes from the movie, let me know. I can always add them in. ok that's it!

Racetrack didn’t know what he was doing. He walked without direction, puffing on the cigar dangling from his lips. Crutchy was in the Refuge. _Crutchy_. The most positive, most sincere, most loved member of their ragtag team of newsies, and he was in the Refuge, rotting with the rats. It weren’t right. All because the bulls had gotten the edge on them. How had he left without checking after Crutchy? How had Jack?

Racetrack’s feet carried him all through New York, but he wasn’t surprised when they stopped outside the Brooklyn Lodging House where Spot Conlon sent his nights. He was angry, he was fuming, and he couldn’t help but think Crutchy might still be with them if Spot Conlon had thrown his and Brooklyn’s weight behind the movement.

Crunching down on the cigar, Racetrack marched into the lodging house. It was late at night, so kids were sleeping and lights were out, but Racetrack had seen one lamp shining from a window. He had an idea who might still be up at this hour. With only the slightest hesitation, he headed up the stairs. It was a newsie taboo to enter another group’s lodging house, but Spot owed him.

At the end of the room filled with bunks and snoring newsies was a door with a light shining out from under the crack. Racetrack headed straight there. He was just about to put his hand on the handle when an arm shot out from the bunk next to the bed and grabbed him.

“What do you think you’re doing?” snarled a quiet voice. Racetrack recognized Chuckles’ outline.

“I’ve gotta bone to pick with Spot Conlon and you ain’t stopping me,” he snapped back, a little louder. A few bunks away, one of the kids turned over and snuffled. Racetrack held eyes with Chuckles. If he had to make a scene to see Spot, he would.

“Spot ain’t seein’ anyone right now,” returned Chuckles, not relinquishing his grip on Racetrack’s wrist. Racetrack snarled.

“Well he’s gonna see me.” Before Chuckles could retort, the door opened, flooding them with light. Race blinked in the sudden brightness, Spot appearing as only a silhouette with a golden halo, like avenging angel from the church Race’s ma used to drag him to on Sundays.

“He’s good,” said Spot lowly. Reluctantly, Chuckles released Racetrack’s wrist. Still glaring, Race marched right into Spot’s private room and shut the door behind him. Then he wheeled around and pushed Spot up against the wall.

“Where the hell were you today, huh? Where was Brooklyn?” Racetrack snapped around his cigar. He was practically trembling with suppressed rage, and he didn’t know where to put it. Spot let Race push him into the wall. He didn’t say anything; he just watched Racetrack with that same unreadable face as ever.

“I thought we could count on you! You been everywhere I been for the last two months and today? Nothin’. What the hell is that about? They took Crutchy. Do you hear? They took Crutchy to the Refuge and he can’t barely walk now. We needed you there! I needed you there! Don’t you’s owe me? Ain’t that how it works with you? Say something, damn it!” Race all but yelled in Spot’s face.

“It don’t work like that,” said Spot in a low voice. His eyes never left Racetrack’s. Racetrack pulled away slightly, but he kept one hand fisted in Spot’s shirt, pinning him to the wall.

“Then how the hell does it work? They got the jump on us, and they’s took Crutchy, and I didn’t even know until we was back at the lodging house. How’d I not know? How’d we let this happen, huh?” asked Race, as his anger melted into desperation. He should’ve been able to help Crutchy. He shouldn’t have left him behind.

“You can’t save everyone, Race,” said Spot in the softest, kindest voice Racetrack had ever heard him use. It shattered whatever anger Racetrack was still holding onto, and he released Spot to sink to the floor. There was a quiet clatter as Spot rested his cane on the floor and sat down to join Racetrack.

“Wanna talk about it?” he offered once Racetrack had been silent for a couple of minutes. Racetrack really didn’t want to. In fact, he could really use a distraction from his terrible failure, so he cast his eyes around the small room for something else to say or comment on.

The room was much smaller than Racetrack had expected, but it was still a private room, which was an unheard of luxury to most newsies. There was an unmade bed stuffed in the corner, and a set of shelves on the wall over the headboard, covered with odds and ends. Spot’s single spare shirt was carefully folded among them. On the crate next to the bed was a small pile of scrap paper. Racetrack recognized them as all the scribbled notes he had sent along to Spot.

“You kept them?” he asked, pointing at the pile. Spot’s face creased in confusion for a minute, then he shrugged.

“Yeah, I guess.” They fell silent again. Racetrack just felt so tired. Slowly he leaned his head against the wall and closed his eyes. What if he just went to sleep right here on this floor? He might as well. It wasn’t like Crutchy would be getting any better accommodations in the Refuge. He should’ve kept a better eye on Crutchy. Sighing, Spot reached over and grabbed Race’s collar and gave a little tug.

“C’mon. You needs to sleep and it’s too late to be walkin’ back to Manhattan. Take you’s shoes off.”

“Huh?” said Racetrack eloquently as he let Spot pull him up.

“You’s sleeping here tonight. I ain’t havin’ you walk back just to fall asleep and tumble off the bridge. You’s can share with me.” Racetrack wasn’t sure if he was hearing Spot correctly.

“Ain’t you the king? You don’t share with nobody,” he mumbled. Spot just sighed again and started unlacing Race’s boots.

“I weren’t always the king. Now scoot in.” Still sort of shocked, Race did exactly that. A few seconds later, Spot squished in next to him. There was some soft fumbling and Spot turned off the gas lamp, leaving them in a dark room.

If it were any other night, Racetrack would probably be trying to figure out why Spot was being so nice or this was one of his weird owing things or what was even going on. But he was exhausted, the room was dark, and with Spot’s skinny body a comforting presence at his back, he was asleep in moments.


	14. Brooklyn's Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’s gonna soak the bastards. We’s joining Manhattan’s strike.”

Spot woke up first, naturally rising at an hour most people would call obscene. But he had wanted to make sure he got Racetrack out before anyone besides Chuckles knew he had spent the night. Sometime in their sleep, Spot and Racetrack had migrated together until they were more a tangle of limbs than anything else. Spot quickly freed himself. The king of Brooklyn didn’t cuddle. 

“Racetrack,” he hissed after he had changed into his clothes and jammed his hat on his head. “Racetrack, wake up.” Racetrack didn’t even so much as grunt. Spot rolled his eyes. Trust Racetrack to sleep soundly even in a bed that wasn’t even his.

“Higgins, get your ass up.” Nothing. Then Spot had an idea. Smirking he placed his mouth right next to Racetrack’s ear.

“Anthony Higgin, get up right now,” he snapped. It was like a shock ran through Racetrack’s body. He was up and out of bed with his shoes halfway on before and blinked and took in his surroundings.

“What the hell?” he exclaimed. Spot couldn’t take it anymore. He doubled over laughing.

“You’s face!” he giggled. Racetrack sulked.

“How’d you even knows my name’s Anthony?” Racetrack demanded as he sat on the bed and frowned. 

“You’s said it was Tony. I did the math,” shrugged Spot. He was pretty pleased he had been correct. “‘Sides, it’s your fault for sleeping so heavily. Don’t you’s gotta strike to go to?” Racetrack swore and started casting around for his other shoe. Spot held it out smugly. Race snatched it out of his hand.

“I don’t even knows if we’s striking today,” he grumbled. Spot couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at that. If he was Jack, and one of his boys’d been brought to the Refuge over this, he’d sure as hell be out the next day, seeking retribution. Those Manhattan boys couldn’t be that soft that they’d back down so easily.

“Well goes and find out, will ya?” Making a face, Racetrack headed for the door. He paused just as he grabbed the doorknob.

“Uh, thanks Spot. Last night was - well, I owes you one now,” he said awkwardly. For once, Spot didn’t feel that warm glow at the mention of someone owing him. Instead he waved it off.

“Nah. We’s good. Go on.” 

Once Racetrack was gone, Spot headed out to the pier where he knew a collection of his birds would be waiting for him, ready to report the next movement of the strike’s opposition. 

“They’s got a group of goons waitin’ for ‘em. They’s gonna get soaked without us,” reported Jittery. Spot nodded as he paced the length of the pier. 

Manhattan had proved they was serious about this. They’d lost Crutchy for this. And the hike in prices was already bleeding his boys dry. A strike would be good. If they could win it. But he couldn’t get all his boys involved. Only the ones who could take care of themselves. He turned back to his birds.

“Here’s what we’s gonna do. Get the best soakers and slingshotters and have ‘em meet me here. Got it?” They all nodded, except Jaz, who had a question.

“So what’re we gonna do, Spot?” Spot gave a sharp grin.

“We’s gonna soak the bastards. We’s joining Manhattan’s strike.” They cheered. “Now go.” Scattering, his birds ran off to alert the other newsies. Spot sat on a crate on the docks and waited. Sure enough, soon he was crowded with kids wanting to be a part of the fight. Newsies from Brooklyn always enjoyed a good soaking.

Spot chose about ten kids to handle slingshots with him and then fifty fighters to be led by Chuckles. Everyone else he sent on their merry way to either inform the other boroughs and cities to start the strike or to start making sure no scabs went walking around Brooklyn. The strike was on.

Spot and his crew traveled out of Brooklyn and to Manhattan where word was that the strikers were going to get soaked. Spot sent his own soakers to hang out in an alley nearby and had the rest of the gang climb up to hide on the rooftop. The goal was to make a dramatic entrance while significantly saving Manhattan’s ass. It was just good politics.

“Let’s soak ‘em for Crutchy!” came Jack’s shout from the street below, along with the sound of the cheers and yells of the Manhattan newsies. A few seconds later, Spot heard Racetrack’s voice rise above the rest.

“It’s a trap, Jack! Jack, it’s a trap!” For a second Spot’s heart leapt in concern, and he cursed himself for worrying about Racetrack’s well-being at a time like this. He should simply be glad his birdies’ information had been as good as always. But as he heard sounds of the fight starting to grow violent, he couldn’t help but fear that Racetrack was getting slaughtered. He gave a low whistle. Time for Brooklyn to make an appearance. One by one his boys shot up from their hiding spots. Spot jumped down into his position last, smirked, and cocked his head.

“Never fear, Brooklyn is here,” he said. There was a cry of approval from the Manhattan boys, and gleeful shouts of “Brooklyn! It’s Brooklyn!” Ah yes, music to his ears. At Spot’s cue, all his boys loaded their slings, aimed them, and let the rocks fly. 

Spot quickly noticed Boots cornered by a large man and let a stone hit the guy's neck. Boots could handle it from there. As he surveyed his work well done, coincidentally making sure Race was holding his own, Jack Kelly called his name. Spot smirked, grabbed a newspaper crane, and swung down to meet the Cowboy, pushing over a couple of men with his feet on the way down. They spat and shook. 

It was time to turn the trap around. Spot ran over and opened the closed gates trapping the newsies in. His boys surged down the street to meet him with Chuckles leading the way. 

"Brooklyn!" Spot yelled, whipping out his cane like a sword and running into the fray. With his boys at his back, they managed to chase off the soakers, leaving East Side victorious. 

"We did it! Spot, Spot, we did it!" Somehow in the chaos Spot had ended up next to Kid Blink. Blink threw an arm over Spot in his excitement. All around them, newsies were shouting and cheering. A man with a camera fought his way through the frenzy. He must be the reporter Finch had told him about. 

He called for them to look at the camera and before Spot could even blink, he had snapped a picture of the group Spot was standing with, Blink's arm still over Spot's shoulder. 

Once the excitement had died down, Spot sent most of his boys home. He kept Hot Dog, Chuckles, Magnet, and Leaf around, however. He wanted to talk business with Jack Kelly. As he started to move towards Jack, he saw a little kid looking at him with bright eyes. Spot stared back. And who was this? Seeing that he had Spot’s attention, the kid beamed and rushed over.

“Hey, you’re Spot Conon!” he gasped. Spot exchanged a grin with Chuckles before crouching down to the kid’s level.

“Yeah I is. And you are?” 

“I’m Les,” said the kid. “I’m David’s brother.” Spot’s grin widened. So this was the Mouth’s baby brother. He tapped the kid’s cap lightly. 

“Yeah, I met him.” The kid beamed even brighter.

“He told me! He said you was kind of scary, but I don’t think so,” said Les earnestly. Spot raised his eyebrows. He always appreciated hearing that he had made an impression. He was liking the Mouth more and more. Not only was he clearly the brains of the strike, but he had a cute brother as well. 

“He did, d’he?” Les nodded.

“Yeah! You’re - you’re the - the head of Brooklyn, right?” 

“I am,” said Spot. He loved little kids. They was a riot. 

“Wow! Can I come visit one day?” Spot tapped the kid’s cap again.

“Sure thing, kid. Hey, you wanna grab Jackie boy for me?” Les scurried right off to fetch Jack. Spot watching in satisfaction. Kids always really liked him. In a few seconds, Les was back, dragging Jack behind him.

“I found him!” Les exclaimed proudly. Spot grinned.

“With talent like that, you’s could be workin’ for me.” 

“Really?” Jack made a face as Les glowed. He probably didn’t like Spot stealing any of the kid’s hero worship. 

“Les, why don’t you go see Davey? He’ll wanna know you’re safe,” said Jack. Les scurried off, leaving the two leaders to talk. Spot’s smile faded as he crossed his arms. The two guys stared at each other.

“You’s couldn’t get Crutchy back?” Spot asked. He knew it would be a sore point, and his thought was confirmed when Jack went red and sputtered something about not carrying the guy. Good. He was unsettled, giving Spot the upper edge.

“So’s I saved your asses today. That means you owe’s me,” said Spot calmly as Jack tried to recover. 

“Whaddya want?” Jack snapped. He knew how this worked. Spot shrugged, feeling smug.

“We’ll see. For now, though, Brooklyn’s with ya.” He spat on his hand and held it out. Jack returned it. 

“Thanks,” Jack said. He knew they couldn’t win without Brooklyn. Whatever doubt anyone might’ve had about Brooklyn’s power in this strike had been demolished today. Brooklyn’s might was key. Jack managed a smile. After all, they had had a great success today. “Come meet Denton.” 

Denton was a charming enough man, but even he, a supposedly hardened reporter, watched Spot’s shadows a little nervously. After he asked Spot a few questions about Spot’s involvement in the strike, he told Spot to come by Tibby’s later. Spot agreed easily enough and headed back to Brooklyn, his boys walking behind him. Today he was top of the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's been so long since the last update! and thank you for sticking with me! you're the absolute best!! t hank you for all the kind comments and please continue letting me know what you like or don't like!


	15. King of New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Racetrack couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. He was on the front page of today’s pape. He rubbed his eyes and looked at it again. There, in black and white ink, was a picture of them striking. Front page, above the fold! This had to be the best day of his life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so the beginning of this is the king of new york scene and it's always awkward transcribing a musical into a story when a song is technically taking place so sorry for any awkwardness but I couldn't skip over this moment

Racetrack couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe it. He was on the front page of today’s pape. He rubbed his eyes and looked at it again. There, in black and white ink, was a picture of them striking. Front page, above the fold! This had to be the best day of his life. 

All the newsies were gathered together at Tibby’s, trying to find themselves in the picture, including some boys from Brooklyn who had come in with Spot about ten minutes ago. Jack was at the head seat, pushing everyone else away as he tried to read the article, but Spot was right there over his shoulder.

“Where’s me picture? Where’s me picture? Hey where does it say my name? Where’s my name?” he demanded, only to be drowned out by everyone else asking the same thing. He sounded far more like a petulant kid than a king of Brooklyn in that moment. Racetrack was pretty sure every single newsie on that pape would buy at least two copies. He certainly had. If he had a ma, he’d send her one. 

“Will you quit thinkin’ about youself?” muttered Jack to Spot. Race snorted. Davey turned to Denton.

“Well you got us on the front page.” Davey sounded more excited than Racetrack had ever heard from him. Denton shook his head.

“You got yourselves on the front page.” Racetrack decided he liked Denton. The guy seemed pretty down to earth. “You just got to make sure you stay there.” Racetrack immediately started thinking of different stunts they could do to accomplish exactly that. 

“So what? you get your picture in the papes, what’s that get ya?” muttered Skittery from next to Racetrack. Race glanced over at him, horrified, and he wasn’t the only one. 

“What’re you talking about, huh?” demanded Mush on Skittery’s other side. 

“You’ve been in a bad mood all day,” added Jack over choruses of “Shut up.” Race couldn’t help but noticed that Spot was still engrossed with the newspaper and almost completely ignoring them.

“I’m not in a bad mood,” protested Skittery. Racetrack scoffed.

“You’ve been glum and dumb. What’s that matter with you?” He shoved Skittery’s face. He had to drive this point through Skittery’s thick skull. “You’s in the papes, you’s famous. And when you’s famous, you get anything you want.” He slammed down on the table in emphasis. “That’s what’s so great about New York!” The boys cheered.

“Yeah, like pair of new shoes with matching laces,” beamed Mush. Racetrack nodded.

“Or a permanent box at the Sheepshead races.” He nudged Spot. “What’d you want?”

“A porcelain tub with boilin’ water,” said Spot with a contemplative nod. 

“A Saturday night with the mayor’s daughter!” shouted Blink, jumping on the table. And then they were all off, shouting out their desires and wants. Racetrack ended up grabbing the newspaper and hopping up on the table himself.

“Look at me! I’m the king of New York!” he shouted. They cheered. And then they were all jumping on tables, shouting. Finally Jack waved them down as the manager of Tibby’s brought over a tray of cokes. Thank god Denton was paying. Another reason he was an upstanding gent in Race’s books.

“So let’s have some ideas!” called Jack as they all crowded around the table. 

“Well, we’ve got to show people where we stand,” said Davey, brave with Spot’s encouraging hand on his shoulder. 

“Yes, we’ve gotta stay in the papes,” agreed Jack.

“My paper’s the only one printing any strike news so far,” said Denton slowly. That wasn’t good. They needed a way to make everyone’s front page. 

“So we should do something so big, the other paper’s gonna feel stupid if they try to ignore us,” said Jack. It was a pretty good idea. Race nodded as he voiced his assent along with the others. “Like a rally!” Their words of support got louder. 

“A newsies rally,” continued Jack, “with newsies from all over New York.” Even Spot Conlon looked enthused. “We’ll make it the biggest, loudest, noisiest blow out this town’s ever seen.” 

“Send a message to the big boys,” agreed Davey, only stuttering a little. 

“Yeah, I”ll give ‘em a message,” grinned Race. He had a few ideas up his sleeves. It would be fun to soak the bulls again.

“Yeah!” everyone echoed. 

“Yeah, there’s a lotta us who ain’t going away,” said Jack as everyone grabbed cups. “We’re fightin’ to damned doomsday if it means we gets a fair shake.” 

“Yeah!”

“Hey you guys,” cut in Davey as it quieted down again. He put a hand on Denton’s shoulder and lifted his class. “To our man Denton.”

“Our man Denton,” Racetrack echoed with the rest of the crew. He raised his glass and took a big swallow. He was actually drinking something besides water. Denton should buy lunch every day. They all cheered once more and then started dispersing. Racetrack ended up walking out with Bumlets, who was practically bouncing with enthusiasm. 

“Can you imagine it, Race?” he asked. “We’s in the papes!”

“Front page,” agreed Racetrack with a grin. “Ain’t nothin’ better’n that.” 

It was weird not working. Racetrack didn’t know what to do with himself. He may be technically a kid, but he’d been shifting papes since he was Les’ age. He never got free time. Never. And if he played any more card games, he’d be broke. Not making money meant no gambling. Race didn’t like that. 

“Hey Jack,” Race called, an idea coming to him. “Need any help with the rally?” At least he could be doing something then. Jack nodded, breaking off of conversation with Davey. Sometimes Race felt a little jealous of how much attention Jack had been giving Davey since the whole thing started. They didn’t have seconds in Manhattan, but if they had, Race had always had assumed it’d be him. Now he wasn’t so sure. 

“Yeah, can you spread the news to the other newsies? Take, uh, take Boots, Blink, and Mush with you, and send out another team of Bumlets, Snipeshooter, and Dutchy. Sound good?” Race nodded his affirmative. He could do that. Once he gathered everyone together, he divided out the cities and boroughs. However, he couldn’t help but claim Brooklyn. Hey, they liked him there. And last night he had found another cigar under his pillow, which should be impossible seeing as none of the newsies were making any money, not even Spot Conlon. 

Brooklyn was pretty welcoming for Brooklyn when they arrived. Jaz and Sweets met them on the bridge, and walked the small group to the docks, chatting happily the whole time. Unlike the other cities and boroughs, boredom was not an option here. Spot kept them busy in various jobs despite the lack of papes to sell. And there were plenty of opportunities to soak scabs and the bulls, which considerably raised the spirits of almost any Brooklyn newsie. They were a violent breed.

“Hey, where’s Spot?” Racetrack asked once he noticed the familiar red suspenders missing from the pier. 

“He and Chuckles is planning in his room,” said Finch, coming over to greet the Manhattan newsies. “He don’ wanna be disturbed.” Racetrack shrugged.

“He’ll see me. Guys, stay here, I’ll be right back.” It was strange that he now lived in a world where he thought nothing of walking past Spot Conlon’s henchmen to go demand an audience with the king of Brooklyn himself. But Finch didn’t even try to stop him, although he did put out a hand to keep Mush from trailing after Race. 

Race whistled cheerfully as he mounted the steps in the lodging house and headed towards Spot’s room. He could dimly hear Spot and Chuckles talking beyond the closed door, but their voices were so quiet he couldn’t make out any words. So it was with confidence that he opened the door, only to be met with a strange sight. 

Chuckles and Spot were sitting on the floor with a children’s book open between them, and Chuckles pointing at the words while Spot glared at them. The minute Race opened the door, their heads both shot up, and Chuckles was on his feet in seconds, pinning a started Racetrack against the wall with one hand and closing the door with other. Race glanced down at the book Spot was gripping with white knuckles. He recognized it as one of the beginner books kids got in school. They had their own copy at Kloppman’s that they used to teach the younger kids to read. Then it hit him.

“You can’t read?” Racetrack asked Spot in surprise. Spot colored angrily, and Chuckles’ grip grew tighter. Racetrack held up his hands neutrally.

“Hey I’m just surprised is all. Chuckles, you mind lettin’ me go?” Chuckles, who had always been friendly with Race, didn’t even falter. He just glared down at Racetrack. So Racetrack turned his gaze to Spot and raised his eyebrows significantly. Spot sighed, unfolding his skinny limbs and standing. He put a hand on Chuckles shoulder, and Racetrack was released. Coughing, he fixed his vest. 

“I know, I know,” said Race before Spot could say anything, “don’t tell nobody nothin’. I won’t. You really can’t read?” Spot almost blushed as he looked down at the ground. Was he embarrassed?

“Yeah, what of it?” Spot snarled defensively. But Racetrack knew him well enough now to know that Spot was more scared than angry. And that with one word from him, Chuckles would fix the problem in whatever way Spot wanted. That would’ve terrified Racetrack a year ago, but now he could be secure in the knowledge that Spot wouldn’t hurt him. Spot liked him, in a weird sort of way. The constant barrage of gifts was evidence enough. 

“Nothing,” shrugged Racetrack. “Just didn’t know that. You’s cover it up pretty good.” 

“Yeah, well,” muttered Spot. Chuckles glanced between them.

“Spot?” he asked, probably waiting for instructions. Spot scowled.

“We’re good. Race’s trustworthy, ain’t he?” Race gave a winning smile.

“Sure am.” Chuckles backed off a little bit, but he didn’t look pleased. That surprised Racetrack, since he considered Chuckles as a friend. Apparently blind loyalty came before friendship. 

“Chuckles, wait outside,” instructed Spot. Blinking in surprise, Chuckles turned to Spot.

“You sure?” At Spot’s nod, he reluctantly left. Feeling a little less wrong footed, Race decided to try this whole thing again.

“So’s Jack sent me to give you details on the rally. Wanna hear ‘em?”

“Sure,” said Spot. His voice was the most expressionless Race had ever heard. So Race dove into the arrangements with Medda and the other newsies in an attempt to get things normal again. When that didn’t work, he decided to just be frank.

“I don’t care that you can’t read, Spot,” he said. “Why’d you think I would?” Spot scoffed, scuffing at the floor with a worn boot. 

“Don’t try’n pull a fast one on me, Higgins. It ain’t right that the king of Brooklyn can’t read and you knows it.” Spot was clearly uncomfortable with this. Race wasn’t sure how to fix this. It was different than finding out about Spot’s father. This was a problem here and now. He thought about Tibby’s where Spot had been persistently asking questions about the paper. It was probably because he couldn’t read it. In some ways, what Spot just said was right. Their job revolved around the ability to read. How did he sell newspapers without reading? 

“How do you find out the headlines every day?” Racetrack couldn’t help but ask. Spot shrugged, placing the book under his mattress and grabbing his cane.

“Chuckles reads ‘em aloud.” Race nodded. That made sense.

“He the only one who knows?” Spot echoed Race’s nod. 

“So’s you ain’t gonna tell anyone?” Spot asked. 

“Nah. We good?” Spot looked at Race for a long moment before a small smile crept over his face.

“Are you ever not good with other people, Race?” Chuckling slightly, Race rolled his ever present cigar between his blackened fingertips.

“Not much. I’m a people person.” Spot gave a real laugh.

“Yeah, suppose y’are.” Race didn’t know what else to say, but he didn’t feel like leaving. Still, Mush and Boots, and Blink were waiting for him. He had to get back.

“See you at the rally?” Spot gave a smirk that looked more like an actual smile.

“Yeah. Now get off my territory.” Racetrack had to laugh loudly at that, and he was still laughing when he got back to his friends. Things really felt like they were looking up. The strike was going well, Brooklyn had joined, and there was something good growing between him and Spot. Today he felt like could take on the world.


	16. The Rally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this was why Spot never underestimated the loyalty of the Manhatten newsies. They may be small in number, but they could kick up a fuss. And with all the other newsies here watching, Spot had to play them very carefully.

“Carryin’ the banner!” A deafening scream rose up to the rafters of Medda’s theater. Spot couldn’t help but get caught up in the excitement as well, clapping enthusiastically from his position on the stage. It was strange not being at the forefront of a movement, and letting someone else take the lead. But the strike was really Jack and the Mouth’s thing more than it was Spot’s, and for once he was happy to lend his weight without requiring the top spot. In the end, he’d still get plenty of credit for its success; he had already seen to that just in the manner how Brooklyn had joined. 

“So!” started Jack, “we’ve come a long way. But we ain’t there yet. An’ maybe it’s only going to get tougher from now on. But that’s fine. We’ll just get tougher with it.”

“Yeah!” said Spot, clapping his hands. As the sound started to build, Jack waved his hands for silence. 

“But also, also we gotta get smart and start listenin’ to my pal, David.” Alright, alright, Spot agreed with that. He voiced his assent again and gave Davey an encouraging tap. The Mouth was alright. He did find it amusing how close Jack kept himself to David though. Spot was pretty sure something was going on there.

“Who says,” continued Jack, “‘Stop soaking the scabs.’” Hey, what now? As Spot raised an incredulous eyebrow, Racetrack spoke from the audience, echoing Spot’s thoughts.

“What’re we supposed to do to the bums, kiss ‘em?” A couple kids laughed. Spot stepped forward and everyone started listening automatically. He loved being able to command a room, even when it wasn’t his to command.

“Hey, any scab I see, I soak ‘em, period,” he called out. There was another deafening shout of approval. Looking slightly panicked, David stepped forward. Apparently that’s what it took for him to get brave.

“No, no! That’s what they want us to do,” he said, waving his hands about. He started pacing. “If we get violent, it’s playin’ into their hands.” Spot stepped towards the Mouth with a sharp grin. 

“Hey look, they’re gonna be playin’ with my hands, alright?” He got right up in David’s face, testing the intimidating factor. He wanted to know how willing David was to stand up for what he believed in, even when he was so clearly scared of going against Spot. “Cause it ain’t what they say, it’s what we say. And nobody ain’t gonna listen to us unless we make ‘em.” He turned back to the crowd, eyes glittering as they cheered for him. He riled them up a bit more, all the while waiting to see if Davey would make his move. Instead it was Jack who interrupted the shouting. 

“You got no brains! We’ll be startin’ to fight each other. It’s just what the big shots wanna see! That we’re street trash, street rats with no brains! No respect for nothin’, including ourselves,” Jack yelled. The newsies started settling down. They really listened to Jack, Spot could tell. That make Jack dangerous. Spot couldn’t ever forget it, especially when Jack was publicly disagreeing with Spot like he was now. 

“So here’s how it is. If we don’t act together, we nothin’. If we don’t stick together, and if we can’t even trust each other, than we’re nothin’.”

“Tell ‘em Jack!” shouted Blink from the balcony. And this was why Spot never underestimated the loyalty of the Manhatten newsies. They may be small in number, but they could kick up a fuss. And with all the other newsies here watching, Spot had to play them very carefully. It wasn’t the right atmosphere to speak out against Jack, even if he found the idea of not soaking the scabs ridiculous. But back in Brooklyn, he would do as he pleased and no one would dare oppose him.

“So, what’s it gonna be?” Jack yelled. Jack’s newsies mumbled assent, Race’s “We’re with you, Jack,” being the clearest. The Brooklyn newsies and several other boroughs, however, waited for Spot’s reaction. Catching wind of that, Jack turned his attention to Spot. 

“So what d’you say, Spot?” Spot cast a speculative eye around the room. There was enough support reserved exclusively for him, that if he wanted to, he could probably win against Jack. But David was right about the striking newsies not fighting each other, at least. This strike had to succeeded, or Spot would’ve backed a loser, and his reign would be over before nightfall. So he turned back to Jack and smirked, all the while resenting the hole he was backed into. 

“I say, that what you say, is what I say.” Relishing the relieved look on Jack’s face, because Jack knew over half the boroughs were only there on the command of Brooklyn, Spot exchanged a spit handshake with Jack. As everyone shouted, Jack grabbed David and Spot’s hands and thrust them in the air. On Spot’s nod, Brooklyn went wild with the cheering too. 

Once they were off stage, however, it was time for Medda’s performance. Spot grabbed a table with the other strike leaders, and one of his boys quickly brought him a coke. You never went without when you were king. 

While Medda’s performance held no allure for Spot, he enjoyed seeing his boys have a good time. Or at least he was until he noticed the Mouth turn pale and scared. What was that about?

“It’s Snyder,” David whispered to Spot, pointing to the head of the Refuge talking to Denton. Spot stood up. This was a trap. He went immediately over to Chuckles.

“Get everyone who’s not a soaker out. Now.” They had scouted back exits earlier in case something went down, so Spot could be confident that at least his young boys wouldn’t end up slaughtered. 

It was just in time too. In seconds, the place was crawling with the bulls. Spot let the Manhattan boys handle Cowboy, and worked on making sure most of his newsies got out and the rest gave the bulls a taste of their own medicine. Brooklyn newsies never shied away from a fight, even with the police. He was sure some of those cops were getting the pounding of a lifetime.

As he rained down hell on a man with his cane, he realized he hadn’t spotted Racetrack in a while. Then he heard Medda scream for him as her employees dragged her out of the fight. Spot looked around wildly. Two bulls were dragging an unconscious Racetrack out of the theater. Snarling, Spot renewed his attack, trying to get to Racetrack. How dare they go after someone Spot looked out for? 

“What’re you doin’?” Chuckles panted as he punched another guy full in the face. 

“Gettin’ arrested,” muttered Spot. “Take care’a Brooklyn for the night.” If he didn’t get arrested on a night where there were twice as many cops as newsies, it would look like he hadn’t done his part soaking the bulls. And if he got arrested now, he could get over to Racetrack and make sure he was okay, because clearly no one else was looking out for him. They were all too focused on Jack. 

Discreetly wiping the blood off the head of his cane, Spot pretended to stumble right into the waiting arms of an officer. The guy dragged Spot to the carriage Racetrack had been stuffed into only moments earlier. When the bull tried to take his cane, Spot pretended to falter again and looked up with large wet eyes.

“I’s needs that, sir, ta walk,” he said, dampening his natural Brooklyn accent and putting on one closer to Manhattan. He wanted to be put with Jack’s boys so he could get to Race. The cop looked back as the fight still raging at the theater.

“Fine, get in,” he muttered. Spot did so willingly. The carriage was jam packed with frightened and bruised kids. He could just make out Race’s profile slumped against the wall in the back. Many of the newsies relaxed when they recognized Spot. Even if they weren’t Brooklyn, Spot would take care of them. 

“You’s all okay?” he called out. There was a general chorus of yes. “Good. Lemme through.” They obligingly made room best they could until Spot got to Race. He was still passed out, and there was a bruise darkening on his face. Clamping down on the automatic flood of rage, Spot tried shaking Racetrack. 

That did the trick as Racetrack woke up with a wet cough. Spot gripped him tightly as he flailed and looked around wildly.

“Huh?” Race finally said once he had focused in on Spot’s face.

“You’s got taken by the bulls. They knocked ya out. We’s in a carriage with some other newsies.” The carriage started moving with a lurch when Spot finished talking. He winced. “They’s either takin’ us to jail or the Refuge.” He knew he wasn’t the only one hoping it was jail. One of the younger kids whimpered. Spot reached over to steady the kid.

“It’s’lright,” he murmured. And then all the kids were pressing in close, looking for comfort and strength from the most respected and feared newsie in New York. Spot was more than willing to give away what he could. Race just saw in the corner, occasionally touching his head and wincing. He seemed a little disoriented, so Spot made sure everyone gave him space. 

The carriage stopped at the jail with three others behind it. All in all, the bulls had rounded up about thirty five newsies. They were shoved into two cells. With a tactical trip here and a tactical trip there, Spot got himself and Race with the other Manhattan boys dragged in, and the four Brooklyn newsies that had gotten arrested (probably on Chuckles’ order to look after Spot because the only way Brooklyn got arrested during a soaking was on purpose), followed Spot’s lead. The bulls locked the cell doors and left. Looking around, Spot observed that he was the only strike leader in jail. That meant he was in charge. Okay, nothing new there.

“Hey, listen up!” The nervous chattering of too many kids crammed in one place fell silent. Spot tapped his cane on the ground.

“Move into boroughs and then figure out who’s hurt most. Have one person report to me,” he commanded. There was some shuffling as kids moved into groups and started identifying injuries. It was no surprise when Bumlets approached Spot for Manhattan.

“Race ain’t doin’ so well, but the rest of us, we’s okay,” he murmured. The concern was palpable in his voice. Spot nodded. That’s what he expected. One by one the others did the same. Most kids were a little beat up, but no one seemed to need immediate help. Spot doubted the bulls would give them any even if they needed it.

Out of his boys, there was Finch, Sweets, Hot Dog, and Marbles. They hovered around Spot protectively, but none looked the worse for wear. Instead, they wore the self-satisfied smiles of a soaking well done. Spot quietly praised them for their work. Once everything was settled, Spot went to check on Racetrack.

“Hey Race, how ya doin’?” he said, squatting down to where Racetrack was sitting on the floor. Race blinked blearily. 

“I keep seein’ double. What’re the odds?” he said, cracking a grin. Spot wished he knew something about medicine. 

“Look, you just keep restin’ an’ if something changes, lemme know.” Race nodded and then stopped.

“Nodding? Not a good thing right now.” Spot rummaged around in his pockets. He normally carried a flask with him, filled with water, to make the hot summer days more bearable. He was pretty sure he had it with him. Sure enough, his hands closed on the cool metal, and he pulled it.

“Bumlets,” he said, handing it over. “Make sure Race drinks some, then pass it around to the kids first. Got it?”

“Yeah,” said Bumlets quickly. Spot nodded and stood. He trusted Bumlets to handle the task responsibly. As he was about to go back to his boys, Mush caught his arm. Spot lifted an eyebrow. Normally people didn’t dare to touch him. Mush colored immediately and released him like his hand was burning. That was better.

“Uh, Spot, sorry to bother you, but uh, where’s Jack? Didn’ they get him too? And what about Davey?” Mush’s expressive face was scared and worried, so Spot swallowed the six automatic snarling responses at the tip of his tongue, and tried to looked comforting. Mush wasn’t his boy, but tonight every kid here was his. And he would take care of them.

“They’s got Jack somewhere separate from us and I bet ya Davey didn’ get arrested. Not with havin’ a real family an’ all,” said Spot bluntly. It would be bad press, assuming any of the papers covered it. 

“You think Cowboy’s okay?” asked Mush, not yet comforted. Spot didn’t blame him. The only time he managed to be mildly reassuring was with the younger newsies. He had too many sharp edges the rest of the time.

“Sure he is. He’s Jack Kelly, ain’t he?” Spot scoffed. And for some reason, that worked. Mush brightened right up.

“You’s right. Thanks Spot.” Mush went back to his section. 

Spot didn’t get a wink of sleep that night. Between calming down the younger boys when they cried, making sure everyone was getting some of the water the officers delivered two hours later, and just generally managing the jail, he barely even had a moment to sit. His boys had tried to stay up with him, but he had insisted they keep watch in pairs, so that two of them could always be sleeping. 

Race started improving after a few hours. The water definitely helped. And when morning dawned and they were dragged before the judge, Race even muscled his way into the front to stand next to Spot. 

“All rise, all rise. Court is now in session. Judge E. A. Monahan presiding,” announced the official once they shuffled in. Spot looked around and noticed how nervous most of the other boys looked. Racetrack just looked tired. He stared up at the judge, refusing to be cowed. 

“Are any of you represented by counsel?” asked Monahan. Counsel? There was some quiet murmuring as everyone shook their head. Spot felt like a pit was forming in his stomach. This had the potential to be very, very bad. He was glad only four of his boys were here. But what about those who weren’t his?

“No? Good, good,” murmured Monahan. Of course the judge would think so, the scum. “That’ll move things along considerably.” Well now Spot couldn’t take that lying down.

“Hey, your Honor, I object,” interrupted Spot with a defiant tilt of his chin. Monahan folded his hands together and leaned forward, looking less than impressed.

“On what grounds?” Spot smirked, satisfied that he had the attention of everyone in the room. Time to lift everyone’s spirits a bit. Pretending to think about it for a second, he nodded.

“On the grounds of Brooklyn, your Honor.” He couldn’t help but grin a little as the newsies behind him erupted into laughter. Race’s was the loudest of all, and he actually hid his head behind Spot’s shoulder he was laughing so hard. Even as Monahan banged the gavel, Spot knew the tension was officially broken. 

“I fine each of you five dollars or two weeks confinement in the House of Refuge,” snapped Monahan over the noise. Spot stopped laughing. Five dollars or the Refuge? Suddenly pissed, he whispered their fate to those who couldn’t hear while Racetrack took up the position as the agitator. 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, we ain’t got five bucks,” said Racetrack. “We don’t even got five cents.” Spot glared impetuously at the judge. He was definitely going to enjoy having his boys pay Monahan a visit when he got home. Then Race continued with just a hint of a smile. Oh this was going to be good. Spot always appreciated Racetrack’s wit.

“Hey, your Honor, how ‘bout I roll you for it? Double or nothing.” That was even bolder than Spot’s needling, and he couldn’t help but laugh with the rest of the boys. 

“Alright, move along, move along.” Thankfully Denton entered the room with David and offered to pay the fines. That was decent of him, although now Spot was more than a little curious as to how much money he had. That wasn’t a small fee. As they started to move out, Davey and Denton rushed over. As David tried to see how everyone was, Denton instructed them to meet at the restaurant. Spot would walk the others there, sure, but then he had to be getting home. 

“Hey fellas!” Spot looked up to see a handcuffed Jack striding into the courthouse like he owned the place. He looked none the worse for wear besides a black eye and Spot couldn’t help but grow angry at that when all the kids around him were bruised and scraped, including Jack’s own. But Racetrack perked up immediately at the sight of his leader.

“Hey Cowboy,” he shouted, “Nice shiner!” Spot laughed a little, simply glad to see that Racetrack was clearly doing better. He had been worried. But they didn’t get to see Jack any more as they were shuffled out of the courthouse, free thanks to Denton’s generous wallet. On the way to the restaurant, Spot sought out Racetrack.

“I gotta head back to Brooklyn,” he said without preamble. “Send me an update but use a runner. Get some rest, yeah?” 

“Hey, I ain’t yours to command,” protested Racetrack without any actual heat. Spot smirked.

“Don’t you know? Everyone’s mind to command.” They reached Tibby’s and Spot whistled his boys over.

“Be seein’ you,” he said to Race, and then headed out just as Denton and the Mouth walked in. He’d hear from them later. Right now, he needed to make sure his house was in order.


	17. The Start of Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Davey better punch Jack. Someone needed to punch Jack.

Jack was still missing. Racetrack was finding it difficult to concentrate on anything else with Jack missing. Davey had been in charge of rescuing him last night, but he had come back alone with only a devastated look on his face. Jack must be back in the Refuge with Crutchy, and the thought of his friends locked up there was killing Race. But he couldn’t think about it if he wanted to concentrate on this strike. Without Jack there, everyone was suddenly looking to him for answers and leadership.

The cart with the papes came barrelling out and Race moved back with the other newsies to avoid being trampled. He rolled his eyes as Spot refused to move out of the horse’s track and had to be pulled back by Skittery. Now wasn’t the time for bravado. Not with Jack missing and Davey acting like he was on the verge of panic. Race cursed as the kids around him fought and screamed. They needed Jack to keep things calm. 

“Stop ‘The World’! No more papes!” The chanting continued. 

“Cheese it! Cheese it!” shouted Davey, looking disheveled and stressed as he pulled apart two roughhousing newsies. “Cheese it! Race, Race, please help me! I need some help.” He grabbed Race’s shoulders and shook them in desperation.

“All right, I ain’t deaf,” he snapped as he pushed Davey’s hands off him. This was chaos; what could he do? As he started halfheartedly trying to organize the mess, Spot broke through and started telling people off.

“Hey, hey, hey, break it up,” he commanded easily. The kids obeyed immediately. Race had never been more thankful for Spot’s automatic power as things started to calm. Race was just starting to think they were getting back on track when Spot’s voice caught Race’s attention. He sounded off when he spoke, uncertain almost.

“Hey - hey Race - Race, come here.” Racetrack stopped reprimanding the two kids nearest him. He couldn’t help but feel a twinge of annoyance. Why did everyone always want something from him?

“What?” asked Racetrack as he turned to Spot. Spot was staring at the gates.

“Tell me I’m seein’ things. Just - just tell me I’m seein’ things.” Race followed his gaze to the collection of scabbers ready to cross the line. What he saw stopped him in his tracks.

“No you ain’t seein’ things. That’s Jack,” Race said numbly. It felt like the ground had dropped out from under him, and everything he knew to be certain in the world was wrong. Jack was standing with the scabbers. “What’s he doin’?” Even as Race asked the question, he had a horrible inkling that he knew the answer. 

Jack looked cleaner than Race had ever seen and was dressed all fancy like with newspapers in his hands. There was only one explanation for that. And yet even as he thought it, he pushed it away. It couldn’t be. Not Jack. 

“He’s dressed like a scabber,” said Blink. The other newsies rushed forward to get a look. Racetrack was still staring, unable to process when Mush pushed through him and Spot.

“Jack? Look at me, will ya? It’s me Mush,” he asked desperately, pressing against the bulls to get closer to Jack. Mush’s normally sweet, happy face was openly distraught. It was like he thought this was all some sort of terrible mistake, and Race didn’t know how to tell him that Jack had betrayed them worse than anyone ever had. “Look at me! What’re you doing, Jack?” Blink joined Mush, pushing him back into the mass of newsies and outside the bulls’ reach. He shouted at Jack too. 

“This ain’t happening! This can’t be happening! What’re you doing, Jack?”

“Hey what is this? Where’d you get them clothes?” Boots demanded as Blink was forced away from the lines. It was like each of the newsies Race had been selling with for years were crumbling onto the cobblestones, and Race felt like he was crumbling with them. But it was Weasel’s response that really did Racetrack in.

“Mr. Pulitzer picked them out hisself. A special gift to a special new employee,” said Weasel with a pleased smirk as he smoothed down Jack’s collar. So it was true. Jack was a scab. He’d betrayed the strike, the strike that he started, for a little bit of money and security. Race was going to lose it.

“He sold us out!” shouted Blink. Vibrating with anger, Racetrack pushed forward. He knew Jack. He knew Jack. They had started selling around the same time and had built the Lodging House up from nothing. Most kids selling with them had been hand picked by Race and Jack. They were friends. How dare he?

“Look at him in his little suit,” snarled Race with more hate than he had previously known he could feel. “Ya bum! I’ll soak ya! Ya fink!” He couldn’t tell if he was shouting or crying. Then Spot’s reassuring hands pulled him back, and Race turned to see Spot filled with the same rage. Trying to clamp down on furious tears, Race decided to let Spot unleash his hell. Jack deserved it. 

“Let me get my hands dirty,” growled Spot. He leapt, practically vaulting over two of the policemen and thrust his cane in Jack’s direction, his face contorted with rage. “Come here, you dirty, rotten scabber!” And then Race realized that Spot could and would kill Jack if he got the chance which would kill any chance of the strike succeeding. Meeting eyes with Mush and Skittery, they quickly pulled Spot back before he could get himself arrested. It ended up taking five of them to get Spot away from the front. He may be thin, but he was tough and powerful, especially in anger.

“I’ll kill ya!” shouted Spot hoarsely as they succeeded in driving him back. Race didn’t doubt Spot’s words for a moment. And for once, he didn’t care that Spot was threatening bodily harm. If anyone deserved the wrath of Brooklyn, it was Jack Kelly. 

Once he was sure Spot was mostly contained by his own boys, Race turned back to the scabber in time to see Davey breaking through the lines. Behind them, Spot was still spitting out threats and insults. The noise was strangely comforting. 

Davey walked over to Jack slowly as Weasel acted all benevolent in letting them talk. Race watched with the other newsies. They had lost Jack. What if they lost Davey now too? Davey had only ever been able to match Jack in this, not surpass or start anything. But they couldn’t lose another leader. And they couldn’t lose the strike. Not when it felt like it was all Racetrack had left. 

Jack and Davey pulled off to the side and started talking. Race strained his ears, but he couldn’t hear anything. Until --

“We don’t need you!” shouted Davey. The shout made Race straighten up and take notice. Because Davey never shouted, and especially not at Jack. Did this mean he was holding firm? 

“‘Cause all those words you said? Those were mine,” continued Davey. It was a strange turn of events that Race was rooting for him over Jack, but there it was. They needed Davey. 

“Yeah but you never had the guts to put ‘em across yourself, did ya?” muttered Jack. As he spoke, Spot returned to his place by Race’s shoulder. He was still fuming, but it was the calm sort of anger that meant a storm was brewing. Race wished he felt that calm. Mostly he just wanted to punch something, specifically Jack. 

“I do now,” said Davey suddenly, taking a step back. Something in his normally calm demeanor had cracked irreparably, but Race couldn't help but feel a burst of pride as Davey walked away from Jack. Davey was one of theirs now. He was a newsie. 

“Didn’t think the Mouth had it in him,” muttered Spot from next to Racetrack. Nodding, Racetrack waited to see how this would play out. Davey better punch Jack. Someone needed to punch Jack. He glared at the scene, as if the force of his will would ignite Davey into action. They were counting on him. It was time for Davey to step up and lead. Soak the scab!

Race and Davey met eyes for a second, and Race nodded darkly. Then Davey turned back around, his jaw tightening, and faced Jack. It was with a savage glee that Racetrack watched Davey rush at Jack, even if Weasel jumped in front of him last minute. That’s right, soak the scab! The newsies yelled out ugly things all around him as it took two bulls to drag Davey back into line. 

The cops forced the newsies to make a path for the scabs to walk through, and Racetrack screamed out insults like his life depended on it. But when they had passed and Jack was gone, he felt drained and hopeless. As Boots called out one desperate, “I trusted you!” Race couldn't resist a final comment as well.

“Seize the day, huh Jack?” There was no response. Les cut in front of the group and looked at Davey with large, worried eyes. Race quickly bit back a few of the other choice things he wanted to say. 

“He-he’s foolin’ ‘em so he can spy on ‘em or somethin’. Yeah, that’s it. He’s foolin’ ‘em,” appealed Les to Davey and Race. Race tried to smile as best he could as to not break the kid’s heart. 

“Yeah, he’s spyin’ on ‘em,” said Racetrack, as he, Davey, and Spot, oddly enough, gave Les a few comforting pats. Just one more thing Jack would have to answer for one day. 

But after he had organized the remaining newsies, since they were all suddenly turning to him, and sent Davey home with Les, he found himself standing in the middle of the empty square, feeling more lost than he ever had in his life. 

“Hey,” said a voice off to the side. Racetrack looked over; it was Spot. Spot had certainly stepped up in Jack’s absence. He had commanded all the newsies outside of Manhattan, as they were less willing to listen to Racetrack and Davey without Jack, and had intimidated almost everyone into staying with the strike despite this huge upset. Now he was leaning against the statue and watching Racetrack. The rest of his boys had gone back to Brooklyn, and it was just the two of them. 

Race walked over to the statue and slumped next to Spot. There was nothing to say. A feather light touch brushed his wrist. Then Spot’s fingers closed over Race’s wrist, and he tugged.

“Hey,” snapped Racetrack as he was yanked into an empty alleyway. Being pulled around like he weren’t even a person was enough to restart the anger brewing under his skin, and he viciously pulled his hand from Spot’s grip. Spot faced him with a knowing grin.

“That’s right, c’mon,” he baited, his arms spread open in invitation. And then something inside Racetrack snapped and all that he been trying to ignore and push down sprang out with a vengeance. 

“What the hell, Spot?” he spat. Spot shoved him lightly, goading him.

“That all you got, Racetrack? Pathetic.” 

“What’s your fucking problem?” shouted Racetrack, unsure of why Spot as even acting this way. It had been a horrible day and he was so angry and tired and lost, goddamnit. So he shoved Spot back. 

“Ain’t today been bad enough? Jack’s - “ he faltered only to dive back in when Spot sneered some more. “Jack’s a scab, a - a fink, an’ - an’ he left us!” And there it was. Suddenly the words started tumbling out and Race couldn’t have stopped them if he tried.

“Those kids, they looks up to Jack. They trusted him. I trusted him. He’s my friend and now he’s gone and sold us out and outta anyone I thought - Denton made sense, but Jack? Jack don’ do that. He’s - why would he gouge us like that?” 

“He’s a scab,” said Spot, almost lightly. The sneer was gone. Apparently this was what he had been trying to provoke. “And we’s gonna kill ‘im.” 

“No!”

“Why not?”

“‘Cause, ‘cause,” Racetrack groaned, yanking off his cap in frustration. “He’s my friend, you can’t kill him.”

“He’s a scab,” repeated Spot as if it were that simple. But it wasn’t. Not to Race.

“But he’s still my friend, and as much as I hates it, I still care about him. He’s turned his back on me, on all of us, and I still want him to be okay, I still want him to come back, and I don’t even know whys I still care, but I do and I hate myself for it and mostly I hate him and - and - fuck!” Race screamed the last part and threw a punch at the wall, dangerously close to Spot’s head. Spot didn’t so much as flinch. He wasn’t afraid of Race’s anger at all. He just leaned back on his heels and nodded. 

“Yeah.” He tilted his head at Racetrack, who was still pacing and breathing heavily and shaking his now sore hand and cursing. 

“Brooklyn’s still in the strike, Race. We ain’t leavin’ you.” There was a pause, as if Spot wasn’t sure he wanted to say the next thing. Finally he did. “I ain’t leavin’ you. Just tell me what’s you want. No strings, nothin’. You just tell me. What do you want?” 

Racetrack stopped pacing. He stared at Spot, who looked back with serious, honest eyes. There was no hidden agenda there, no politics, no double meaning. It was just Spot, offering to help Race when it was always, always Racetrack who was offering help to everyone else. He helped out everyone, doing favors just as soon as breathing. And normally he didn’t mind, didn’t need something in return, but he was so tired, and for once he wanted to not be the one others relied on. He didn’t want to take over for Jack. And Spot was offering a favor, expecting nothing in return, without even considering his constituents in Brooklyn. And so without even thinking about, Race moved to answer the question of what he wanted, an answer he hadn’t even let himself think about until now. 

He slammed into Spot, his hands immediately seeking out Spot’s suspenders and pulling him closer as his mouth descended on Spot’s. Spot’s mouth was warm and sweet and his lips were slightly chapped. Racetrack kissed him without meaning to, without thinking about the consequences of outing himself when he had kept all this under wraps for years and years. 

And then Spot made a soft gasp and Racetrack realized what he had just done. He sprang back like he was one fire. He had just kissed Spot - Spot Conlon, king of Brooklyn - and now Spot would know who he was, and would have the power to do anything he wanted with that information. But when he pulled away, Spot growled slightly, fisted his hands in Race’s shirt, and pulled him back. And then Spot was kissing Racetrack. 

Now that he had permission, Racetrack didn’t hold back. He brought his hands up to cup Spot’s face as Spot shoved him against the wall. The kiss was fierce and heated and aggressive and no sooner had Spot cornered Race against the bricks than Race was spinning him around to corner him.

When they finally pulled apart, Spot looked like a mess, with his suspenders falling off one shoulder and his shirt was completely untucked. Even his hair was wild and tangled, his hat having fallen off sometime before. Racetrack probably didn’t look much better, but he couldn’t bring himself to care as he grinned at Spot’s swollen lips and pink cheeks. 

“So I take it you’s ain’t gonna soak me,” Racetrack said finally. Spot laughed, throwing his head in a pure expression of joy. He still had his hands clenched in Race’s shirt. For as much as Race’s hands had wandered while kissing, Spot had just pulled him closer and closer. 

“I ain’t ruled that out yet,” murmured Spot, but he was already tugging Racetrack back to him. “You know, this explains a lot.”

“Yeah? Like what?” There in the alleyway, it felt like it was just him and Spot and no one else. And when Spot giggled - yes, giggled - at Race’s question, Racetrack decided he wanted to stay here forever. Then Spot released Race’s shirt with one hand, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a cigar. Corona, Race’s brand. He tapped Race’s nose with it and then held it up for Race to take. 

“Like this.” Racetrack accepted the offered cigar. 

“I don’t get it.” Spot didn’t exactly blush, but he did turn a little red.

“Yeah, well, I don’ smoke, do I? And yet I’m carrying these things around nonstop. For you.” Race smirked, feeling rather pleased.

“So it ain’t just me feelin’ like this?” 

“Nah,” said Spot shaking his head, “it ain’t just you. I just didn’t figure it out til you laid one one me.” 

“Oh yeah, sorry.” Racetrack couldn’t help but wince a little. It was never a good idea to kiss someone without permission, especially if it wasn’t even legal to kiss that person in the first place. Spot kicked his shin lightly upon seeing his expression.

“Lucky for you, I ain’t upset.” It was almost sweet, for Spot. Racetrack couldn’t stop himself from leaning forward and stealing another kiss as he tugged at a lock of Spot’s hair. Then Spot sighed and finally untangled his hands from Race’s shirt, leaving soft wrinkles in the fabric. He slowly smoothed the shirt and readjusted Race’s vest.

“I gotta get back to Brooklyn,” he said. 

“Do you have to?” Racetrack said. The weight of the day came crashing back down around his ears. He wanted to be needy a little longer, to ask Spot to stay, but he couldn’t do that. He did favors for others, not the other way around. 

“I do.” Spot hesitated. “You’s should tend to your boys, Race. They need you.” 

“I don’t want to.” It wasn’t fair of him to say that. He knew everyone was looking to him now. Yet all he wanted was to stay here with Spot in this little alleyway, so close he could feel the sticky heat of summer radiating off of Spot’s skin. Spot kicked Racetrack’s shin again.

“Tough luck,” he snapped. “They’s looking to you, so’s you have to suck it up.” Grumbling, Race pulled back. Spot stepped forward with a scowl, and grabbed hold of Racetrack’s collar. 

“Listen to me,” he growled. “Don’t go soft on me now. You’re going to go home, tell the boys that the strike is still on, and let them talk to you about Jack. ‘Cause everythin’ you’s feeling, so’s they. But they ain’t you. They’s young and scared and they need you. So you gotta be what they need. Got it?” 

“Is that what it’s like for you?” Racetrack asked slowly. Spot’s mouth quirked up slightly, but he didn’t answer the question.

“Go home, Race. I’ll see ya later.” Racetrack opened his mouth to complain but Spot stopped him with a hard, opened mouthed kiss that distracted him completely. Then Spot pushed him away, place his cap back on his head, and left. Racetrack shook his head like a dog getting water out of its fur from the abrupt exit.

There was no time to dwell. Spot had been right. As much as Racetrack didn’t want to take over the mantle of responsibility Jack had left behind, someone needed to, and he was Jack’s second after all. So, jamming his cigar in his mouth, he fixed his appearance and went off to find the other newsies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guys so I actually super labored over this chapter and feel very unsure of it because it's a big one where big things happen so if you could tell me whether or not you liked it, that would be so helpful and appreciated. that being said, it was really fun to write. things are picking up!


	18. Back to Brooklyn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You and - you’s and Race? What was that?” Chuckles said finally. 
> 
> “What of it?” Spot snapped, feeling defensive and more than a little unsure. He couldn’t afford to lose Chuckles’ support. And not just for his reign - for himself as well. He valued Chuckles as his friend, maybe his best friend when it was all said and done. Spot would be lonely without him.

Spot had only traveled two blocks when Chuckles appeared by his side. He barely glanced over Chuckles fell in step. 

“I thought I’s told you to go back to Brooklyn.” he said mildly. 

“You’s know I can’t do that,” responded Chuckles. His voice sounded slightly choked. Spot finally looked at him.

“Out with it,” Spot said. Chuckles stiffened.

“Out with what?” Spot wasn’t fooled. He intensified his glare, and Chuckles wilted.

“Okay,” he said. There was a pause as they headed to the bridge. Finally Chuckles heaved a sigh and started talking.

“You and - you’s and Race? What was that?” Spot didn’t understand why Chuckles sounded so pained. He and Chuckles had talked about Leaf, and Chuckles had no issue with Leaf being who he was. So why would he care about Spot? Spot knew as king, it was dangerous and foolish to get involved with someone else, especially another guy, but when Race had kissed him, it had felt so right. He had never thought of anyone romantically before, and he was more than a little surprised that that’s what his feelings for Race had translated into. 

“What of it?” he snapped, feeling defensive and more than a little unsure. He couldn’t afford to lose Chuckles’ support. And not just for his reign - for himself as well. He valued Chuckles as his friend, maybe his best friend when it was all said and done. Spot would be lonely without him.

“I, uh, I never thought - just - since when have you liked guys?” said Chuckles hesitantly. He didn’t sound disgusted or angry, just hurt. What did he have to feel hurt about? Perhaps he thought Spot had been holding out on him. 

“I don’ know,” said Spot with a shrug. “Never really thought of anyone like that. I’s as surprised as you are.”

“So you’s didn’t know?” asked Chuckles, finally sounding something other than pained. Spot shook his head.

“Nah. Ain’t got time. Why?” 

“You really don’ know?” Spot felt like they were talking in circles and he didn’t like it. He liked his boys to be direct with him. He had only allowed Chuckles this conversation because it was Chuckles. Anyone else would’ve gotten dunked in the ocean by now. 

“Out with it,” Spot repeated, adding just a touch of impatience to his voice. Chuckles winced, getting the message. He only hesitated for a second before spilling the truth.

“I’s had a thing for you for - for the past two years and you ain’t even noticed.” Spot stopped walking, almost dropping his cane in shock. Not much shocked him, but this? This was unexpected, to put it lightly.

“Liam,” said Spot slowly. He didn’t know what else to say. Chuckles quickly shook his head.

“It’s fine, I’s just - as long as you’s clearly weren’t interested in no one, it didn’ matter that you’s weren’t interested in me. It was enough that you’s - you’s put everything on the line for Leaf. Ain’t no one who’s done that before for someone like me. It’s how I knows you was the right person to like.” He couldn’t even look at Spot as he spoke. A horrible regret welled up in Spot. He was supposed to know his boys, know everything about them, and he had missed such an important thing.

“I’m sorry.” Spot didn’t apologize often, but when he did, he meant it, just as he meant it now. 

“You didn’ know,” said Chuckles. Shaking his head, he continued, “Just - you really like Race?”

“I do,” said Spot, a little taken aback at how fast and sure the answer had come. Chuckles nodded again.

“Okay. Good.”

“Liam, I --” For the first time, Chuckles interrupted him.

“This don’t change anything, Spot. I’s - I’d still die for you. I don’t want this to make things weird, ya know?” 

“Look, if you want --” He was going to offer relocation, a break, anything, but Chuckles shook his head.

“Just want everythin’ to be the usual, okay? Like I’s never said nothing.” After a beat, Spot agreed. He even almost grinned with Chuckles spat into his hand and offered it. Instead he respectfully returned the handshake and dropped the subject. 

Brooklyn wasn’t quite in chaos when they arrived back, but it was close. They had learned of Jack’s betrayal, and with Spot’s prolonged absence, they were worried the strike was petering out without result. 

It took the better part of the day to reorganize and calm their fears, and then the remainder to address all the financial problems cropping up as a result of the strike. Kids just weren’t getting enough to eat; they didn’t have the money for it. But Spot refused to let anyone starve on his watch. So he collected a few groups and sent them out to pickpocket the richer people in the city and to then distribute the funds to everyone feeling the pinch. 

Spot had just closed the court when Chuckles approached, leading a fidgety Marbles. Resisted the urge to groan, Spot schooled his expression into something unreadable. It never ended. But he had meant what he told Race; you had to be what they needed. And his boys needed a king. 

“What’s this now?” he asked. It was a fight to keep the exhaustion out of his voice, but he succeeded. Marbles looked nervously from Spot to Chuckles, who pushed him forward slightly. 

“Uh, I, uh, well you’s know Spit and Twitch?” Spot nodded. He didn’t like where this was going. Swallowing, Marbles continued. “They’s approached me, askin’ if I’s liked you as king and all. I think they was trying to see if I’d be willing to go against you? I think ‘cause, uh, ‘cause of that whole thing with Pup, but I ain’t mad ‘bout that, that was fair, real fair, how you dealt it. I brokes the rules, and I paid for it. But uh, I’s think Spit and Twitch are rooting around, tryin’ move against you maybe, drum up support and the like.” 

Spot resisted the urge to smack something. This was not what he wanted to hear. Instead of releasing the violent instinct, he drummed his fingers on the top of his cane. Spit and Twitch were moving against him? It wasn’t surprising, given what he knew of them. They were aging out of being newsies, and they wanted to stay. Combine that with their recent humiliation when Spot took sides with Leaf of all people (in their opinion, not Spot’s), of course they wanted to get him out of the way. And if they got the kingship, they could stay, and no one would be able to kick them out. 

All that would have to be dealt with. But first he needed to address his loyal subject and reward him. Spot put a hand on Marbles’ shoulder. 

“You’s did good, Marbles. I’s proud to call you one’a mine,” he said honestly. Marbles practically puffed up, he was so pleased by Spot’s praise. “Look, I knows you’s been having a rough time, people still giving you the cold shoulder for Pup. I’ll smooth that over for ya. And Marbles?”

Marbles nodded, waiting for Spot to speak. Spot pulled out two bits from his pocket and handed them over. Marbles looked at the shiny coins with wide eyes. Two extra bits? That was riches, that was, especially in strike times.

“Thanks.” Formally dismissed, Marbles wandered away, leaving Spot with Chuckles and a problem a mile long. 

“What d’you wanna do about Spit and Twitch?” asked Chuckles. Clearly he had been serious in his desire to not acknowledge his feelings for Spot. Spot still felt a little uncomfortable, because he was worried he was causing Chuckles undue pain. But he decided to take Chuckles’ lead on this one. He had never experienced unreturned feelings. He had never really experienced any sort of romantic feelings before Race. 

Race. It was hard not to let a smile spread over his face at even the thought of his favorite Manhattan newsie. How had he gotten so far gone and not even noticed?

“Spot?”

Oh, right, Spit and Twitch. The two most annoying brothers in Brooklyn. Spot ground down on his teeth as he thought.

“We gotta be careful. After the Leaf thing, they could get more support even if I’s just kick ‘em out right now.”

“So keep ‘em close and under watch?” Spot nodded slowly. That could work. He’d need one of his best birds on the job though. 

“How about Sweets?” Spot mused as he paced the pier, tapping his cane as he walked. It was more habit now than anything else. Sweets was just removed enough that no one would accuse him of being Spot’s inside man, and far enough up the hierarchy that Spot could rely on him. 

“Do you want me to go get him?” 

“Let’s wait twenty four hours. We’s don’t want Spit and Twitch knowing we’s on to them, yeah?” 

“Good call.” Spot nodded.

“Can you’s handle things from here?” Spot rather wanted to stop by Manhattan, check up on Race, but he didn’t want to say it outright. From Chuckles’ eye roll, Spot had a feeling Chuckles had read between the lines anyway.

“It ain’t gonna look good if you’s constantly going off to Manhattan,” Chuckles said honestly. Spot smirked a little.

“I’s can do whatever the hell I wants. I’s king.” Well, Chuckles couldn’t deny that, so he agreed to lock everything down for the night, and to not even trail Spot like he clearly wanted to. Once Spot was satisfied that Brooklyn was all set, he slunk through the shadows and headed off to Manhattan, taking a route no one else knew. 

The lodging house was dark and quiet when Spot climbed up the fire escape. It was very late. Spot jimmied open the window and crept silently to Racetrack’s bunk. 

Racetrack was fast asleep, the thin sheets half on the floor and tangled around his feet. Grinning to himself, Spot knelt by the bed and put his hand over Race’s mouth. Racetrack was awake in seconds, but his angry yell was stifled by Spot’s hand. He only calmed when he made out Spot’s outline in the dark.

“Bastard,” he spat when Spot finally removed his hand. Spot jerked his head at the window. Grumbling under his breath, Racetrack climbed out of bed and followed him out the window up to the roof. 

“What?” he grunted once they were sitting together. 

“How the boys doin’?” Spot asked softly. He wasn’t ready to admit that he had traveled all this way just to see Racetrack. He would cover it up with questions about the strike. Race sighed heavily.

“Hurt. Confused. I said we’s still on strike though, so’s I suppose we’ll figure it out. What’re you really doing here, Spot?” Of course Race wasn’t fooled for a moment. He was sharp; that was one of the things Spot liked about Race. So Spot smashed his shoulder into Race’s in answer. 

“You wanted to see me,” said Race, a grin growing across his face. He suddenly looked very awake. “King of Brooklyn, comin’ all the way to see little ole me. I’s honored, I am.” 

“Shut it, you,” grumbled Spot. But Race just laughed, knowing he was right. 

“So, uh, does this mean we’s a thing?” Race asked. Spot didn’t consider himself shy by a long shot, but he felt a little hesitant when he nodded.

“If you’s want?” It must’ve been the right answer, because Racetrack grinned even more and reached over to clumsily grab Spot’s hand.

“Good.” Then his grin turned mischievous. “So can we make out some more?” Spot didn’t even bother vocalizing a response as he twisted to face Racetrack and practically fell on him as he answered with a kiss. Biting Race’s lip, he grabbed Racetrack’s undershirt and held tight. Racetrack grinned into the kiss, using his hands to pull Spot on top of him. 

Spot had no idea what he was doing; he had never gotten involved with anyone before. So he mostly followed Racetrack’s lead and went by instinct. 

“This okay?” Race murmured between kisses.

“I think so,” Spot breathed. He was feeling a lot of things right now and wasn’t quite sure what any of them were, but he liked Racetrack and he liked this. “I’ve never really done this before.” Suddenly Race stilled. Had Spot said the wrong thing? Race made no movement to change position but he pulled back his hands to carefully smooth Spot’s hair off his face as he looked strangely at him.

“What?” snapped Spot defensively. 

“You’s never made out with anyone before?” Racetrack asked. “Not even a girl?” Feeling disgruntled, Spot pulled himself off of Race and put some distance between them, crossing his arms.

“So what?” Race sat up slowly as he considered his words. 

“Nothin’. Just surprised s’all. Why not?” 

“Never had feelin’s for anyone ‘fore, have I?” Spot grumbled. He was embarrassed admitting all this, but it didn’t occur to him to lie. Sure, he knew plenty of boys his age had done all sorts of things, because they loved boasting about it, but Spot had never had the time or even the interest. This thing with Race was new, and he didn’t appreciate the way Race was staring at him.

“Ever?” asked Racetrack incredulously. Spot bristled. 

“Hey, hey, hey,” said Race as Spot grew withdrawn. “I ain’t making fun. I - I’s surprised is all. It’s - sweet.” Spot just frowned and refused to look at Race. 

“C’mon, Spot, don’ be like that.” 

“You’s makin’ fun,” Spot spat, pulling his limbs in tighter. Sighing, Racetrack inched forward and put an arm around Spot. Spot didn’t shake the touch off, even though he wanted to a little. 

“I don’t care if you’s liked one, one hundred, or zero other people, Spot. I like you, and you’s like me, and that’s what I care about. Okay?” Spot shifted a bit so he could look at Racetrack. Race looked serious.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. Promise.” Spot turned a bit more.

“You really don’ care?” 

“Spot, I like you. I’s just wanna make sure I ain’t rushing you, and if you’s haven’t done anythin’ before, maybe we should take it slower, okay? I don’t want us goin’ too fast ‘fore you’s ready,” Race said honestly, taking Spot’s hand and tracing designs into his skin. Spot softened a little. As much as he felt like he was being babied, it was still kind of proof that Racetrack cared. 

“I ain’t stupid, just inexperienced.” His voice wasn’t as sour as it had been, however, so Racetrack smiled slightly. 

“I knows, but I think we should slow down a bit anyway.” Spot swayed a little for a second as he thought about it. As much as he liked kissing Racetrack, it had all been a bit much.

“I guess if you’s wants to go slow,” said Spot, “we’s can do that for you.” Raising his eyebrows, Racetrack bit back a smile. It was clear that Spot had said that to hide his relief, but wasn’t willing to admit it. Which is exactly why Race had offered the out. Spot relaxed a little after he said that, and Race scooted to close the rest of the space between them and enclose Spot completely in his arms. It was rather nice. Spot leaned against Race’s back and just breathed. He could stay here forever. 

“We’ll just talk a lot, okay? Communication,” said Race. His chest vibrated as he spoke, something Spot had never noticed before. He leaned into the vibrations, thankful that none of his boys could see him now. If they did, he’d never manage to intimidate them again.

“I don’ like talking,” responded Spot sullenly. Race just poked him in the side, and Spot released a very unkinglike squeal. 

“Jerk!” Spot swiftly punched Racetrack lightly, and soon they were messing around in a way totally unlike before, but still with all the same enthusiasm. When the mock fight finally petered out, they two of them ended up laying down on the roof and looking up at the stars. 

“I’s should go back to bed,” Race said finally. He made no effort to move however, and Spot turned onto his side to curl into Racetrack a little more. 

“I don’t wanna move,” he whined. Race turned so they were nose to nose.

“You’s could stay here? Leave in the morning?” The idea was appealing. Technically Spot should go home. There was mutiny brewing in the ranks and a strike to organize and he still wanted to smooth things over better with Chuckles. But Brooklyn, for once, seemed so far away and distant. He found himself agreeing despite his better judgment. 

Racetrack and Spot crawled back through the window and into Race’s bunk. Race automatically curled around Spot and fell asleep in minutes. It took Spot a little longer; he wasn’t used to the snuffles and snores that came with sharing a room with a bunch of people anymore. But he was tired and eventually exhaustion won out and he fell asleep, feeling safe and warm in Race’s embrace. It was a long day, but a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you guys for all the positive feedback on the last chapter! you're truly amazing and I love you all.


	19. Jack's Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Racetrack followed David out of the lodging house to a small alley next to it. It was a pretty secluded spot; Race knew Blink and Mush sometimes used it as a makeout hideaway. Jack was pacing in the small space, running a hand through his hair raggedly. He looked up with Race entered and his face broke into a smile.
> 
> “Racetrack, I --” Racetrack cut him off with a punch. Jack staggered back, clutching his jaw. To his credit, Davey didn’t attempt to interfere. This was between Racetrack and Jack.

“Okay, boys, who’s in?” Racetrack shuffled his cards with a winning smile. It was hard finding ways to entertain everyone when there was no work. So Race had fallen back on one of his old standbys - card games and gambling. No one had any money, so they gambled chores and favors and peanut shells. But it was good fun. 

“Racetrack!” Racetrack looked up from the circle of Dutchy, Itey, Skittery, and Blink. David was at the door, gesturing frantically. 

“Looks like you’ll have to deal without me, gents,” said Race with a smirk. Then he hurried over to see what David wanted. The kid looked exhausted, but he was glowing like he had just won twenty bucks.

“How’s it hangin’, Davey?” Race asked. He wanted to know why David was so happy. As far as Racetrack knew, there weren’t no reason to be happy (except his exciting, new something with Spot, but that was a secret).

David pulled him to a secluded spot. 

“Jack’s back,” he whispered. 

“What?” Racetrack was pretty sure he was hearing things. 

“Jack’s back,” repeated David. “He’s very sorry, and he’s back. We’re going to write a pape and deliver it to every child worker in New York.”

“What’s this gotta do with me?” Racetrack demanded. Jack was back? Like hell he was. He sold them out and now he thought everything was gonna be fine? It didn’t work like that. 

“We need you to get the word out, Race, so we can deliver the papes. Denton and I are going to write the pape, then we’ll use this old printing press of Pulitzer’s that Jack found, and then we’ll distribute them and have another, huge rally in front of Pulitzer himself, so - so he has to listen to us. What do you think?”

It was a solid plan. As angry as Racetrack was with Jack, he had to admit it was a good plan. Actually, it was probably David’s plan. Racetrack was still pissed.

“Why should we’s trust anything that involves that - that scab?” spat Racetrack, folding his arms. David wilted slightly. 

“Racetrack, Jack’s really sorry. He is. He would’ve come himself, but he was afraid no one would see him.”

“He’s got that right,” Race muttered. 

“C’mon, Racetrack, please?”

“I wants ta see him,” snapped Racetrack. “Give him a piece of my mind.” David didn’t fight him on that. They were all hurt by Jack, and if he was going to come back, he needed to prove he was back for real. And the only person who could convince the others was Racetrack. 

“He’s outside.” Racetrack followed David out of the lodging house to a small alley next to it. It was a pretty secluded spot; Race knew Blink and Mush sometimes used it as a makeout hideaway. Jack was pacing in the small space, running a hand through his hair raggedly. He looked up with Race entered and his face broke into a smile.

“Racetrack, I --” Racetrack cut him off with a punch. Jack staggered back, clutching his jaw. To his credit, Davey didn’t attempt to interfere. This was between Racetrack and Jack.

“Ya scab! How dares you show your face! We’s trusted you and you betrayed us. I ain’t gonna just let you waltz back in here like nothing happened ‘cause something happened, and there ain’t no fixing it,” he snapped. They stared at each other for a minute. “Now you say your piece.” 

Jack slumped against the dirty brick. He looked finished, but Racetrack couldn’t find it in his heart to feel sorry. Jack better grovel.

“Look, Racetrack, I’m sorry. Pulitzer was threatenin’ me with the Refuge for Dav - for everyone an’ I didn’t know whats to do,” Jack said. Racetrack squinted. As much as he hated to admit it, he had a pretty good feeling he knew exactly why Jack had backed off the strike. He turned to David.

“Give us a few seconds alone,” he requested. David threw them one last nervous glance and left. Racetrack turned back to Jack.

“You’s backed down ‘cause they’s went after Davey, didn’t you?” Jack’s deep blush was Race’s answer. 

“I - I ain’t - why would you even think - Davey is - I mean...” Jack trailed off as Racetrack fixed him with a look. “How’d you’s know?” 

“If it’d’a been anyone else you’s wouldn’t’ve back down, but with Davey it’s different.” 

“You’s, uh, you’s ain’t disgusted, that I’m, you’s know?” Racetrack thought about Blink and Mush, always tiptoeing around in fear. He thought of him and Spot, how if anyone in Brooklyn found out, Spot would be dead by nightfall. He thought of Jack and David, both hopelessly in love with the other but too afraid to make a move. How many people were there like them but they had no idea because to speak about it at all was to risk everything?

“Nah, Cowboy, there ain’t nothin’ wrong with how’s you feel,” said Racetrack, finally starting to forgive Jack. Who know’s what he might’ve done if it had been Spot? Actually, he probably wouldn’t have turned into a scabber because he knew full well that Spot could take care of himself and would be out of the Refuge before he even got there. But Racetrack at least understood the sentiment.

“Does Davey know?” Race asked with a little teasing grin. 

“Do I know what?” asked David as he reentered the alley. Apparently he had thought they had had enough time. Jack turned bright red as Racetrack howled with laughter. 

“That we’s all good now,” said Race. The grin slipped off his face as he turned back to Jack. “But if you’s ever do anything like that again, I’ll soak ya. Or better yet, I’ll take Spot up on his offer.” 

“What offer?”

"Spot offered to kill you," said Racetrack in faux nonchalance. Jack blanched. It wasn't an idle threat. 

"Would-would he really do that?" asked David hesitantly. Poor innocent child. 

"Do you's know how newsies in Brooklyn becomes king?" Race said slowly. David shook his head. 

"They's kill the previous king," explained Jack. 

"Really?"

"Yeah. Killing ain't a big deal in Brooklyn."

"Spot's not gonna really kill Jack, is he?" David was so worried it was almost sweet. 

"No, but only 'cause I asked real nicely. He took Jack's leaving personally," said Race, still enjoying Jack's wince. They may be okay now, but Jack still wasn't completely forgiven. 

"Can we's count on Brooklyn still?" 

"Do you still care?" retorted Racetrack. The question pissed Jack off. 

"I said I was sorry, didn't I?" he snapped. "How long're you gonna make me work for your forgiveness?"

"Long as it takes for me to be convinced," said Race simply. There was nothing Jack could say to that. He had betrayed them, after all. In light of Spot's threat, he was getting off pretty easily. He wasn't dead. 

"But you'll help us?" pressed David. Sighing, Race nodded. 

"Yeah. But I can't promise anyone else will." And then, because he was a sucker and Jack was making the most wretched look, "I'll do my best to get everyone on board. Even Spot." 

"Thanks, Race." Jack aimed for his old winning smile but if fell flat. Race wasn't willing to concede any more than he already had. So, saying goodbye to David, he headed back into the lodging house. Time to do another in a long line of favors for Jack. 

"Hey, everyone, listen up!" he called over the comfortable chaos of a day off from work. The chattering dwindled as curious heads turned towards Racetrack. 

"I got news. We's gonna do another rally and hit Pulitzer harder than ever before."

"Says who?" asked Specs. 

"Did Davey come up with the plan?" called out Itey. 

"What d'we do 'bout Jack?" added Snoddy. 

"Scabber," muttered Snipeshooter angrily. Race waved his hands again, trying to get them to settle. This would be harder than he thought. The hurt from Jack's betrayal ran strong and deep. 

"Jack's back," said Race, seeing no point in beating around the bush. As he expected, there was an explosion of commotion. 

"He can't just expect us to forgive him," growled Blink, his arm protectively placed over Mush's shoulder. Mush had been very sad and quiet since yesterday. 

"Yeah," shouted Boots. "Why should we's trust him?"

"Did Davey tell you?" Dutchy called. 

"Yeah, who says Jack's really back?" added Skittery. Everyone started talking at once. No matter how hard he tried, Race couldn't get them in order again. 

"Let Race talk!" shouted Bumlets suddenly. In the entire history of the lodging house, Bumlets had never once raised his voice. People paid attention. 

"Thanks," said Racetrack with a nod to Bumlets, who settled back down. 

"I's spoke with Jack myself and I's told him what would happen if he turns his back on us again. I ain't asking you to trust him or even listen to him. I'm asking you's to trust me." There was a beat. 

"We's with you, Race," said Mush softly. "You think this is right?" Racetrack nodded seriously. 

"I do." Slowly and then gaining speed, everyone voiced their support. Spot had been right; like it or not, Race was a leader now. It might not even be enough for Jack to come back to get him out of this. It might be forever unless Jack really made things right. Racetrack really hoped Jack made things right. 

"So tell us, Race," said Blink from next to Mush. "What's the plan?"

Grinning a little despite himself because it was a good plan, Racetrack started outlining what they were going to do. They were going to make their own banner. It was time for the newsies to shine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh sorry for the long wait for this and thank you to everyone who left such nice comments asking me to update!


	20. Chapter 20: Carrying the Banner

Spot stared at the piece of paper in his hand. He knew Chuckles was hovering behind him, reading over his shoulder, but it was little comfort when he had to make an answer for the whole city based on a pape he couldn’t even read. He flicked his eyes back up at Jack Kelly, who had brought the pape over personally to apologize and ask Brooklyn to join them. Racetrack stood to the side of Jack with David Jacobs, but he couldn’t help Spot without revealing Spot’s inability to read. However, that didn’t stop Race from trying.

“We’s thought if we put our demands and complaints on a pape, expose the real problems, we could get every child worker to support us. Whaddya think?” Racetrack said, his eyes wide and meaningful as he spoke. He approved of the pape, in other words. But Spot couldn’t let his personal feelings dictate his reaction to this. 

‘Course Race wanted Spot to support the pape - he’d already forgiven and welcomed Jack Kelly back into the fold, and Spot’s support was what was best for Manhattan. Spot needed to do what was best for Brooklyn. The only person’s opinion he could trust in this matter was Chuckles. Chuckles would be thinking ‘bout what was best for Brooklyn. Because if this movement failed despite Spot’s support, Spot would be dead by nightfall. 

“Hm,” Spot hummed to give himself more time. He tapped his cane twice on the ground and snuck a glance at Chuckles, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. It was a good pape, then. Good for Jack, good for Race, but also good for Brooklyn and therefore good for Spot.

“We’re handing ‘em out all over New York. We wants to distribute them here, in Brooklyn,” said Jack, speaking with more confidence than Spot would expect from someone who recently screwed over all their friends and betrayed their own movement. It pissed Spot off a little, to be honest, that Jack was forgiven so completely and so quickly after all the hurt he caused. But it was a good pape. Behind him, he could hear his newsies murmuring amongst themselves as they read it too. They liked it. They believed in it. That had to be enough for him for now. Spot tapped the cane again, letting the suspense build. Then he passed the pape over his shoulder for Chuckles to hold and settled both his hands on his cane, fixing Jack with a singular glare.

“This pape ain’t bad. Who wrote it, huh?” Jack straightened up slightly when Spot addressed him. Spot asking a question meant there was a chance Jack was getting Brooklyn’s support versus an automatic soaking for being a dirty, rotten scabber. 

“Denton and Davey,” said Jack. “We wanna use these papes to call a big rally in front of Pulitzer’s building.” And, like he had said earlier, they needed Brooklyn and they needed Spot. Without Spot’s approval, the papes would get nowhere in Brooklyn and they’d be missing one of the largest groups in New York for their rally. 

But Spot knew that the rally would happen with or without Brooklyn, and likewise the papes would find their way into the hands of his newsies with or without his approval. There was only one real choice for Spot. 

"We'll help distribute ‘em," said Spot finally. Then his expression hardened and he pointed the cane at Jack, speaking a little louder so everyone heard. "If this don' work, you'll regret it, Jackie boy. Ya hear? I'll soak ya. Permanently." Spot let the threat float in the air for all the newsies to hear as Jack paled. Then he nodded. 

"It'll work," Jack said. 

"And I don't promise that we'll be at your rally neither," spat Spot. If other people went to the rally besides the Manhattan newsies, Brooklyn would be there. In backing Jack the first time, Spot had backed a quitter and a scab. That weren’t good for his reputation. He couldn’t taking backing a loser too. 

“Now leave us the papes and we’ll carry ‘em for you’s. Then scram, ya hear me?” Jack and his boys hastened to obey. Spot carefully didn’t look at Racetrack as he followed Jack. If all went well, he’d see Race later today. Then he turned to his newsies, all waiting anxiously for his word. 

"Boys," said Spot with a flourish at the piles of papes, "goes unloads some papes. Time to get back to work, carryin’ the banner." 

Brooklyn buzzed with activity that early morning. Spot and his boys covered every inch of their turf, handing out papes to all the kids who could read, and explaining the contents if they couldn't. Almost everyone Spot talked to wanted to attend the rally. But Brooklyn was led by the newsies, and none of the other kids would go unless Spot's crew would go. Yet according to Spot's birdies stationed everywhere else, all the other boroughs were planning to attend with or without Brooklyn, just like Spot predicted. It sounded like the rally was bound to be a rising success. Brooklyn had to be there. So Spot informed his constituents that they would be going, as one united Brooklyn to get their fair share. 

Spot changed into his nice shirt, collected his boys and all the child workers of Brooklyn, and headed off to corner Pulitzer. 

It was like an avalanche of kids coming into the square. They poured in from every direction, holding signs and papes and shouting for fair treatment. When he caught Manhattan's eye, they cheered. Spot responded by shouting "Brooklyn," and his boys followed suit. 

Once Brooklyn was settled in the strike, Spot fought his way over to Manhattan. He was one of the leaders, after all. It was his right. Chuckles stayed close behind him. The newsies gathered there greeted him. They looked just as excited as Spot felt. He had never seen so many kids in the same place, all on the same team. There was no way they weren’t going to win this. 

Jack and David were called to speak with Pulitzer, leaving the rest of the crowd to wait outside the building. As they stood there cheering and chanting, Spot shouldered his way through the newsies to stand next to Race, trying to act as casual as possible. But he couldn’t help but return the huge, definitely not casual, grin Race sent him as they bumped elbows. 

“Hey,” said Race, still grinning fit to burst. Spot rolled his eyes a little as he matched Race’s facial expression.

“Hey.” 

“Think we’s gonna win?” he asked. Spot nodded empathetically. 

“Yeah. We gotta. Pulitzer can’t ignore this.” 

Looking up, they could see the windows to Pulitzer’s office open and chanted and cheered even louder. Spot felt invigorated with the crowd, like someone had breathed new life into him. Victory was so close he could taste it. 

When the gate opened for Jack and David, Spot called all of Jack’s crew to them. Jack and David were unreadable, until Jack leant down to whisper something in Les’ ear. Then he pulled Les up on his shoulders, shouting:

“We beat ‘em!” Spot was beside himself cheering, forgetting to be the powerful, dignified ruler of Brooklyn for the moment. 

Pandemonium gripped the crowd as they celebrated their victory. Chuckles ran off to bring the news to the section of Brooklyn newsies as Racetrack pulled Spot into a hug, too elated to care about appearances. Spot was so consumed with victory that he almost didn’t notice when Warden Snyder and the cops drove up with Crutchy and other Refuge kids, including some of Spot’s. Standing next to Race and behind Denton, Spot heard the whole story. Snyder was done, meaning the Refuge was done. His boys would be out in no time. This might be the best day ever.

When Spot saw Teddy Roosevelt pull up in a carriage, he knew this was the best day ever. Not only had Spot helped bring about a successful revolution against Pulitzer and Hearst, but he was in the presence of Roosevelt hisself. No one would doubt that Spot was the best King ever. His reign was secure. Now all that was left was to return to work and sell papes. For once, Spot knew what the headline would be. 

The only damper was Jack Kelly’s unexpected exit to his mysterious Santa Fe. Spot could slug the guy. First he betrayed the newsies then he left them. He knew Racetrack would take it hard, and Spot disliked anything that upset Race. But then, as everyone meandered back to work, the carriage with Jack returned. 

Jack immediately went over to David to have a “moment.” Spot made a mental note to ask if they were together. While they exchanged what were surely heartfelt words, Spot cozied on up to Roosevelt. That was a mighty fine looking carriage, and he had a hankering that Roosevelt’s pockets went deep. He could make a profit out of this.

“You’s got room for one more?” Roosevelt, tall, bold, and grinning, looked over at Spot.

“Hello there!” he boomed. “And who are you?” Spot stuck out a hand.

“Name’s Spot. I’m from Brooklyn. You’s from Manhattan, like Cowboy, right?” Roosevelt nodded. Spot gave his most winning grin. “How’s you feel ‘bout giving me a ride outta here on this carriage?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry it took me literally over a year to post an update. this chapter has been giving me a Hard Time, and I still don't love where it is but I'm tired of working on it so here we are. let me know what you think. I have the next chapter halfway done so you might not even have to wait 14 months for the next update.


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